


Powerless

by patentpending



Series: Powerless 'Verse [1]
Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Classism, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Superheroes, Supervillains, Thinly Veiled Criticism of Society, Trans Male Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Unreliable Narrator, more angst than previously anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 187,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patentpending/pseuds/patentpending
Summary: “People like us,” Logan had once remarked to Virgil. “Are statistical anomalies.”(Almost)  Everyone in the world has powers.  As for those who don’t, well, they’re such a small part of the population - only 0.04% - why would anyone care about them?Ever since he realized what people mean when they call him Powerless, Virgil Sanders has tried to fight back against the system that oppresses people like him, Patton, and Logan.  When Patton’s bakery is targeted in a hate crime, he finally snaps.  With the help of a mysterious sponsor, Virgil becomes a villain, ready to remake a broken society.  The only thing standing in his way is the world’s most Powerful (and infuriatingly charming) superhero: The Prince, who is hiding the fact that his gilded life isn’t as perfect as it may seem.





	1. Virgil Walks Down the Street (But is Emo About it)

“People like us,” Logan had once remarked to Virgil. “Are statistical anomalies.” He went on to explain that as 99.96 percent of the world’s population has some sort of enhanced ability, according to many standard rules of rounding, that 0.04 percent left over was statistically insignificant.  Statistically insignificant had struck Virgil like a much better description for himself.  People like Patton and Logan managed to stand out, to make something of themselves despite all the stigma that came with being unabled.  He, however, was so easily able to be overlooked, rendered insignificant by the cool, neutral laws of mathematics.  

Virgil stared impassively at a heavy parchment envelope, top already ripped open in excitement; he shoved it irreverently in his pocket as he turned up his hood and walked out onto the street, away from the crapfest that branded itself as the apartment he lived in.  His scuffed combat boots hit the pavement in a familiar _one-two one-two_ pattern.  He elected to focus on that instead of the people soaring in the sky above him, instead of the people with flames for hair and rocks for skin, instead of the people who moved with poise, with grace, with purpose.  Virgil huddled deeper into his hoodie as it all flashed past his safe cocoon of black fabric.  Iridescent wings, insurmountable strength, psychic ability, supernatural charisma.  All these and more belonged to - statistically speaking - every single other person on this planet.

Logically, Virgil knew that these people had no way of knowing he was unabled.  Discounting his gaunt face and skeletal structure, he looked like pretty much everyone else, albeit taller than average.  He slumped over, hid the shadows on his face with makeup, and made it a point to blend into the background.  All that the limelight got you was a nasty burn.  But none of his precautions could ward off the undeniable feeling of eyes following him.  They could tell, he sometimes thought bizarrely.  There was something off about him.  There was something missing.  In a world where everyone showed off their ability at every given moment, he was a still, black dot in a beautifully swirling kaleidoscope of the incredible.  They could tell.  He thought once again.  They could.

His _one-two one-two_ pattern was abruptly knocked off-kilter as he collided with a man with glowing red eyes.  “Watch it, freak.”  The man snarled.

Virgil opened his mouth. “You think I wanted this?” He prepared to cry. “You think I asked to be like this? You think I want to live in a world where everyone thinks I’m about as worthy as the dirt on their boot?”  But all that came out was a murmured “sorry.”  It didn’t matter.  Rudolph the red-eyed classist was already gone.

They can tell, Virgil.  They know that you are-

“Powerless.”  Virgil read in a state of horror as he finally arrived at Patton’s bakery.  One of the windows of **Bake My Day** had been broken; it grinned a macabre smile, full of jagged glass.  The offending graffiti was slashed across the side of the cheerful purple bakery, as red as an accusation.

“Hiya, Kiddo!”  Patton, as enthusiastic as ever, stood next to a bucket of soapy water, waving with a sponge in his hand right hand - the one with a blue wristband. An arc of sudsy water followed his arm, splashing Logan.

“Honestly, Patton!” Logan jumped back to avoid anymore water from landing on his precious blue tie.  “Please control your porifera’s outpouring.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I love the way you say it.”  Patton’s freckled face split in an enchanting smile.

Logan sighed.  “Greetings, Virgil.  I take it you’ve seen Patton’s unwelcome art exhibit.”

“What happened?” Virgil demanded, striding over to Patton and grabbing him by the shoulders to examine his chubby frame for any signs of damage.  “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, kiddo!” Patton’s guileless blue eyes blinked at him.  “This was just how the shop was when I got here this morning.”

“He immediately called me-” Logan began before Patton coughed.  “He immediately checked to ensure all his recipes and ingredients were fine,” Logan amended. “Then called me to help assess the damage.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Virgil admonished.  “I live right down the street!”  

“Didn’t want you want to worry about your old pop-”

“Being the father figure of our psudo-family doesn’t automatically make you any sort of paternal authority, you know.”

“Hush now.  Especially when we knew you were going to hear back about your NASA application today!”

Virgil felt the weight of the letter in his pocket.  “That doesn’t matter now.”  He deflected.  “Who did this?”

Logan surveyed the building.  “Someone with terrible handwriting and poor manners.” He frowned.  “Are they aware the socially acceptable term is ‘unabled’?”  

“I think that was the point, Lo.”  Patton interjected softly.

Logan’s face tightened ever so slightly as he looked at the dripping red letters.  “Oh.”

Patton immediately did his best to disperse the gloom in the air.  “Well, come on, then!  Virge has got to tell us what he heard!”

Virgil’s heart sank even further in his chest.  “Oh, no, that’s not really what’s important right-”

“Don’t be silly, kiddo!” Patton exclaimed as he practically shoved the two taller men inside his bakery.  Virgil was relieved to see the glass had been swept up and the shop was as cheerful as ever.  “C’mon, sit down!”  The baker bustled to his usual spot behind a glass case filled with a dazzling array of sweets.  “A raspberry bear claw for my sweet bear.”  He handed Virgil the pastry.  “And a lemon-poppy seed muffin for my muffin!” He chirped, handing Logan his staple sweet.

They both murmured thanks.  Virgil shoved the entire pastry in his mouth to avoid talking.  He chewed slowly, mindful of the blue and brown eyes that stared at him with twin looks of anticipation.  “So…”  Virgil decided that it would be best to just get it over with.  “I got my letter today.”  

Patton immediately cheered and Logan offered a hearty congratulations.  Virgil felt bile rise in his throat as he passed the crumpled envelope to Patton.

The baker carefully extracted the letter and began to read it with his best NASA application officer accent.  It was a frankly bamboozling combination of southern and Irish dialects.  “Dear Virgil Sanders, NASA  thanks you for your application to our engineering program.  Your credentials are incredibly impressive-” Patton broke off to grin at Virgil, who was vehemently wishing the ground would swallow him whole.  “-and your designs for a new atmospheric re-entry capsule were truly innovative.  However, we regret to inform you… that you do not meet necessary credentials for a NASA engineer.”  Patton’s face creased in concern.  “Oh, kiddo.”  

“But that’s preposterous!” Logan protested, tugging on a lock of his tight, black curls in agitation.  “Virgil is the finest engineer I’ve ever meet!”  This was saying something, as he often had brilliant scientists and engineers come give presentations at his planetarium.  “How on Earth could he not-”  His gaze landed on a stray piece of glass, glinting harshly in the sun.  “I see.”

Virgil laughed bitterly.  “Why hire an engineer to solve a hypothetical problem when you can just hire someone to to fly models into space until one works?”

Patton smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  “That’s the way the world is for people like us, kiddo.  That’s not going to change anytime soon.”

“Falsehood!” Logan cried.  “What of that rally Virgil is planning for next week?”

“You mean the one with an incredible sign-up of fourteen people, including us?” Virgil shook his head.  “Society isn’t going to see a cool sign or twitter campaign and just turn on its head.”

“Well, no, I wasn’t trying to turn all of us into gloomy gusters here!” Patton rushed to reassure them.  “I just meant that we have to make the best of all that we already have!”

“Quite right.”  Logan affirmed in satisfaction.

Virgil didn’t say anything.  He just stared at the light reflecting off a broken sliver of glass.  His skin suddenly felt as if it was stretched across his bones wrong, it grated at the corner of his mind.  He didn’t say anything as he helped them scrub red off the side of the building.  He didn’t say anything as he held the ladder steady so Logan could tape a tarp over the gaping maw of the window.  When he did say something, it was only a soft goodbye as his boots resumed their _one-two one-two_ pattern on their voyage across the concrete jungle.  

His friends deserved better.  The thought hit him as suddenly and fiercely as a bullet to the side.  They deserved better than a society that would always degrade them for a genetic roll of the die.  They deserved better than broken windows and harsh red paint.  They didn’t deserve to be powerless.

He caught snippets of conversation as he slunk down the street.  Apparently, SupersWeekly had caught wind of an affair going on between Mistress Malice and Doctor Gloom.  Titillating.  Despite living in New Psyche, the town with the highest number of self-proclaimed heroes in the world, superheroes and villains had always been somewhat of an abstract concept to him.  They were just another cog in the corporate machine that ran over people like him.  Well, most of them were abstract.

“Did you hear The Prince foiled the Black Raven’s plan to extinguish the sun?”  A girl with snakes for hair squealed to her friend.  

“Yes?” Her friend responded.  They had one of those voices that made everything they said seem like a question.  “And he totally confirmed invulnerability is one of his powers?”

“I think you mean _dreaminess_ is one of his powers!”  The rip-off Medusa giggled.  Virgil wondered if those snakes were venomous; maybe one would be so kind as to bite him.

“Too bad he’s taken?”  Their voices blended in with the others as Virgil strayed away.

 _One-two one-two_.  His worn boots padded along.  The Prince.  He was the worst of all of them.  He was every single thing Virgil resented in the abled:  self-absorbed, shallow, and completely obedient to The Man.  Virgil fought The Man.  He briefly indulged in a fantasy of punching The Prince in his perfect teeth, then shook his head, as if to clear the daydream.  He’d just end up breaking his hand.

Virgil trudged up the creaking stairs to his apartment and shut the world out behind him.


	2. Local Emo Complains About his Apartment and gets a Weird Phone Call

The satisfaction Virgil derived from slamming the door behind him was short-lived.  However much he tried to treat his apartment as sanctuary from the broken world outside, there was no denying it was objectively awful.

He untied his boots and roamed on sock-padded feet from the dingy entryway (if you could call a two-foot by two-foot square an entryway) with its perpetually flickering light, towards his small living room.  The kitchen, the apartment listing had reassured him, was combined with the living room for ease of movement (read: being unable to go five feet without hitting something.) and accessibility (read: if you’re broke enough to get this hellhole, you’ll take it and not complain).

He fell face-first into the garish brown couch; the ancient wooden supports creaked under his weight.  He mentally debated moving his face to get a breath of something that didn’t reek of mildew, but decided against it.  He blindly groped around on the filthy beige (although he was reasonably sure it had once been white) shag carpet for the remote before hitting the power button.  He was far too broke to afford even cable, but he didn’t have a degree from MIT for nothing.  The ancient clunker fizzed into life, homemade wire antenna shaking, and the shockingly clear picture of Kaimi Alvi, New Psyche’s local news anchor popped up.  She smiled benevolently through the TV as she chipperly reported the day’s headlines.  A new Barnes & Nobles would be opening on the corner of Ego and Id.  Virgil lifted his head, wondering if they were hiring, but soon turned away.  Kaimi’s face, lovely with her dark skin set off by her mint hijab, was far too pleasant for him to bear at the moment.  Plus, there was a rumor she was Able to see whoever was looking at her, no matter how far away.  Virgil didn’t put much stock in the rumor mill, but it was always better safe than sorry.  Besides, that would explain why she was such a good reporter.

Instead, he listened to her cheerful voice as she continued to run through the headlines.  Like the gorgon and the jeopardy contestant had said, The Prince had defeated Black Raven in yet another stupid plot to destroy humanity or whatever.  Virgil saw the appeal of just hurling the entire planet into the sun, he really did, but at least give society the chance to change or make you eternal emperor first.  He sat, lost in thought as the maroon sky drifted to navy.

Eventually, however, he roused himself, shuffling over to his (small, cramped) bedroom, which was connected to the (even smaller, cramped) bathroom with its (tiny, claustrophobic) shower.  He peeled off his black hoodie, throwing it into an ever-growing pile of black and purple clothes.  He kept on his Panic! At the Disco T-shirt but wriggled out of his binder, knowing Patton would have his head if he forgot.

After switching his skinny jeans out for a pair of gray sweatpants - and frowning at the hole on them he always forgot to patch up - he returned to the living room/kitchen/off-brown pit of despair.  On the edge of the stained horror masquerading as a sofa, a stack of mail, formerly abandoned in pursuit of his crushed NASA dreams, was perched.  Virgil picked them up, tired eyes scanning them listlessly as he settled back on the couch.  “Overdue bill, final notice, overdue bill.”  He carelessly tossed them over his shoulder as he disregarded each one.  “Hey, first notice, win!”  He hated to do it, but he’d have to ask Patton or Logan if he could pick up some more shifts at the bakery or planetarium, respectively.  It didn’t matter how many times he had stayed up all night filling out job applications; how many times he wore his _one_ suit to job interviews, flashing a brittle smile at another corporate tool whose face would hold perfectly still, then shutter closed when he read **unabled** on Virgil’s resume; It didn’t matter that he had poured hours and hours of time and effort into his passion for engineering, learning all that he could until he could build almost anything.  He was still always the last choice.

A shrill ringing broke off his train of thought.  He glanced at his off-brand smartphone then perked up when he saw that it was a blocked number.  He hoped it was one of those IRS scams; he loved finding new ways to waste their time.  “Hello?” He put the phone to his head.

“Is this Virgil Sanders?”  A distorted voice asked.  Static crackled over the line, drawing cold hands across his skin and raising goosebumps on his arms.

“Yes.” He responded cautiously.  A note of apprehension crept into his voice. “And who is this?”

“Someone who has been watching you for quite some time now.”

Well, this was definitely a serial killer.  They were standing outside his door, or behind the couch (Virgil doubted anyone could reasonably hide in his “shower”) waiting to kill him.  “Wow, that’s creepy.” He quipped as flippantly as he could.  No way he was going to be one of those people with terrible last words you always saw in horror movies.

“I’m pleased to say you and I share a unique point of view.  As such, I have an… interesting proposition to make.  I do hope you will hear me out.”

Okay, not a serial killer. But probably someone who found the photos of him Patton had managed to sneak onto FaceBook and immediately fell in love with him and oh no, Virgil had a crazy stalker. “Yeah, I think you have the wrong number.” The voice continued, regardless.

“You know as well as I do that many intrinsic parts of our society are immoral, and, frankly unfair.  The Abled constantly degrade, disclude, and discount the Unabled as weakinglings they have a moral obligation to save from whatever terror of the week, but never actually take the time to solve any real issues for.  I am calling because I am in a position to make all of this change.”

Scratch the stalker, just crazy.  “No one can make this change.” Virgil stated flatly.  His chest ached with the truth of his words.

“No _one_ , yes, Virgil, you’re absolutely right.  But, with you, I _won’t_ be doing this alone.”

The static buzzing over the line seemed to intensify: freezing hands dragged across his chest, his arms, his neck.  He rose, unable to breathe past the the crackling hiss.  “What are you saying?”  His feet took him back to his room where he stretched out on the bed, trying desperately to get air into his lungs.  “What are you _saying_?” He demanded again, fear and excitement making a battleground in his stomach.

“That you, my dear Virgil, should join me.  Become an enemy of this broken society.  Be a villain.”

Oh.  This was just another mistake.

“I don’t have powers.” He protested. “I’m useless!”

“That is a lie.” The voice seeped out of the phone and into Virgil’s ear; a viscous liquid trail followed its creeping path towards his brain. “You are a talented engineer. You can build anything. I know you’re skilled. I know you’re intelligent.” The voice sharpened. “I know that you hate this world as much as I do."

“This is insane,” Virgil breathed, a desperate attempt to stall the response he already knew he would make.  For maybe the first time in his life, fear had lost.

“Don’t let this chance go to waste! If you don’t change the world, who will?”

Virgil stared through wide eyes at the ceiling.  He had painted glow-in-the-dark stars on it when he had first moved in.  When he had still believed that moving to this city would make a difference.  When he had believed that he could be whatever he put his mind to.  The first night he had stayed in New Psyche, he had sleepily tried counting them all, but they were as innumerable as the dreams that soon took him.

They didn’t shine anymore.

A sudden coughing noise caught his attention.  It sounded like the voice was shuffling some papers.  “Also, I’ll cover your apartment bill. And provide a reasonable salary, of course.”

Virgil licked his dry lips, he ached with the enormity of what was about to happen, but his voice rang clear.  “What do you need?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop there it is.
> 
> Forgot to put this last chapter, but I shamelessly stole Baker Patton from the lovely whatwashernameagain.


	3. Astronomer Guy Too Good, Too Pure for This World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Okay, we've had two chapters of world-building and a bit of plot set-up. Now is the time to really start to dig into Virgil's experience as a villain and-  
> Also me: Or we could write 2.4K about Virgil renting a lab  
> Me: Sold.
> 
> Thank all of you who have left Kudos and all of those wonderful comments on the previous two chapters! You all motivate me to keep writing and make this the best story it can possibly be.
> 
> Mild emetophobia warning! Skip the paragraph starting with "But he couldn't."
> 
> As always, feel free to point out any grammatical errors or typos.

The next day, Virgil blinked himself awake.  He padded into the main room and opened the refrigerator.  With the exception of a carton of orange juice and a head of lettuce, it was empty.  Virgil frowned.  (When had he bought that lettuce?  He didn’t eat healthy.)

Everything was perfectly normal.

Shrugging, he uncapped the OJ and tilted his head back to chug it, the long line of his neck rippling with every gulp.  He tried to chuck it in the trash can but missed.  He gave the empty carton a long suffering look.  Even in the sanctity of his own (pit of misery) home, he was betrayed by his favorite drink.  

Everything was perfectly normal.

He picked up the carton and placed it in the trashcan like a boring person who can’t hit something five feet away does.  His eyes caught on his phone.  Something itched at the corner of his mind.  He roamed back to his room.  Flipping open his anachronistically basic laptop, he decided to check his email for any response about a job.  Maybe today the universe at large would decide it didn’t hate him.  

Everything was perfectly - wait.  That was most certainly not normal.

A notice from his bank was not uncommon; they liked to remind people that they were in crippling debt.  What was unusual was the fact that his account balance wasn’t in the negatives.  Far from it, actually.

So it hadn’t been a dream.  The normality of his morning had almost convinced him last night’s conversation had been a hallucination of a fevered mind, driven half-mad by the damage done to **Bake My Day**.  After all, who would ever think he was anything special?  

Actually… He might be able to find out.  He quickly logged into his bank account and checked the transfer history.  There.  At twelve fifty-seven last night, a bamboozling number of zeros had been wired to his account by one U. N. Owen.

He snorted despite himself.  U. N. Owen.  Unknown.  Apparently his new partner in crime (literally, he thought with a tinge of hysteria) had a sense of humor, or was an Agatha Christie fan at the very least.

The fact remained that there was money in his account.  Actual money.  Because he was going to be an actual villain.  The thought seemed almost ridiculous in the light of day, but as his eyes drifted back across his computer screen, he allowed himself a small smile.  His entire life all he had wanted to do was rage against the machine; here was his chance to do it.

A low thrum of excitement settled over him as he prepared for his day.  He waltzed through his routine with fire flashing in his eyes.  As he walked down the street he had felt so malcontented and insecure on less than a day - had it really only been a day? - ago, he felt lightning crackle under his skin; sparks flared from his fingertips.  If anyone dared touch him, they would ignite.  

His mind replayed the words the static-y murmur had conveyed to him last night.  The first thing he needed to do was talk to Logan.

His hidden knowledge sped his steps through the streets of miracles so typical to everyone but him.   _Not for long, though._ He thought with a grim satisfaction.

Logan’s planetarium was a futuristic affair.  It gleamed chrome and silver in the day’s bright light; the dome in the middle had Virgil convinced it kidnapped cows and made crop circles in its free time.  A blast of chilled air hit him as he entered the lobby.  Crowds of sight-seers gawked at murals of space as they waited, with varying degrees of patience, for admittance.  

Virgil slunk into the main area with a twinge of disquiet.  He knew that he was technically allowed to be here whenever he wanted, but that didn’t appease the envious glares levied at him or guilt he felt for skipping the line.  He wondered if that reflected poorly on his current career choice.

After dodging several staff (He never knew how to greet people he knew by face but not name.  Did he smile? He wasn’t the smiling type. Was he supposed to stop and say hi? What if one of them had previously told him their name and he was supposed to remember it but didn’t and then they hated him and forbid him from ever returning but Logan wouldn’t like that so they would be fired and have to go home to their spouse and three children and tell them that they had been fired and it was all Virgil’s fault?), he found Logan leading a group through the exhibits.

He lurked in the shadows, considering Logan.  He was so animated when he spoke about space, especially to children, it was easy to see why he chose to continue giving tours, even after purchasing the planetarium.   His normally handsome face was rendered exquisite by the delight etched into every plane of his dark-hued countenance.  His soothing voice wrapped every person in the room in a story of space and supernovas and the stardust that runs through humanity’s veins.  A bittersweet melancholy settled into Virgil’s chest as he watched the astronomer.  Virgil used to wonder why Logan would even associate with someone like him, but the truth that the intellectual cared about the emo was a much stranger story than anything his twisted mind could have concocted.  He really was wonderful.  Virgil always tried to persuade himself that if it weren’t for Patton’s glaringly obvious crush on their friend (and Logan’s equally conspicuous heart-eyes), he would have made a move years ago.  In reality, however, what social anxiety didn’t eliminate as an option was removed by the fear of losing one of the best things in his life.  In the end, all he wanted was a friend.

The group applauded as Logan concluded his presentation.  Using the dispersed masses as a cover, Virgil slipped over to his friend.

“Great job just now,” Virgil commented.  

Logan jumped slightly, then relaxed as he turned to see who it was.  “Virgil,” He acknowledged, warmth in his deep brown eyes if not his tone. “Thank you very much.  It’s always a pleasure to see you here.”

Right, this wasn’t a social call.  Virgil had a mission to complete.  “I’ve actually got some good news.”  Logan tilted his head in curiosity.  “I… I found a job.”

Logan’s demeanor immediately brightened in pride. “Fantastic!  I knew yesterday’s… unpleasantness was only a temporary set back.”

Virgil found a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “Yeah, I think you’re right.  As usual.”  He tacked on with a smirk.

“Can I suppress an intrinsic aspect of my nature?”  Logan chuckled.  “So, what is it you will be doing?”

A sudden jolt of panic shot through Virgil, knocking the smile off of his face. How to word this…  “Independent contracting.”  Technically true.  “I’ll be building a lot of different devices for a sponsor.”  Also technically true.  “So I need a lab.”  Completely true.

“Ah,” Logan nodded in understanding.  “Please, come, I think I have a suitable space.”

Logan led Virgil out of the exhibition room, past the entrance to the dome, and through a metal door marked **Employees and Aliens Only**.  A winding staircase led them into a dark, austere hallway with a half-dozen doors dotting it at irregular intervals.  “Most of these are staff break rooms or storage,” Logan explained as they strode past the galaxy-painted doors.  “But this room here at the very end was used as storage for our latest exhibition on how gravity affects the space-time continuum.” He broke off as he riffled through his pockets for the key.  “So, as you see, it is now empty.”  The door swung open.

“It’s really a fascinating topic,” Logan’s voice rang from somewhere behind Virgil as he took a few stunned steps into the enormous room.  “You see, there is a direct correlation between the mass of an object, and by extension its gravitational pull, and how time and space react to this object.  I believe it has been explained by several physicists as reminiscent of how a taunt blanket reacts when a bowling ball is placed in the middle of it.”

“Cool.”  Virgil choked out, because it really was, and any other time he would have been happy to engage with Logan on the topic, but now he was busy being swept off his feet by the sight before him.  

The room was incredible.  It had a high ceiling with a variety of electrical cords and outlets hanging from it, perfect for anything he needed to wire. Lab tables were set at regular intervals against the walls and in a semi-circle in the middle of the room.  The soft click of his combat boots against the concrete floors echoed off of the walls and reverberated somewhere deep in his chest as he walked further into his own personal wonderland.  There was an empty aquarium set deep into the farthest wall and a ventilated hood in the one opposite that.  A spiral staircase led to a door that must’ve opened outside.   A large space was positioned in the exact center of the room, perfect for his larger projects.  He practically swooned with pleasure when he saw the pile of scrap metal and wiring in one corner.  Now he didn’t have to go to the hardware store.  Store clerks were always suspicious of him.  In his mind’s eye, he already saw this lab as it could be in a few days: half-formed machines scattered across every surface, colorful beakers bubbling ominously on the tables, wires sparking and gears turning in his mind and in his hands.  It was perfect.  

“-but the problem with that is muon particles are highly unstable and should dissolve only a few feet into our atmosphere, so their presence virtually everywhere on Earth at sea level lends exceedingly irrefutable evidence-”  Logan’s baritone rumble continued from somewhere behind him.

Virgil trailed a reverent finger across one of the aluminum tables; it came away dusty.  Logan broke off his monologue to sneeze violently.  “You okay?” Virgil asked, half amused, half concerned.

“Fine, I- ACHOO! I assure you.”  

Virgil’s eyes widened.  “Lo!  You’re allergic to dust!”  The engineer cursed himself for forgetting.

“Really?” Logan commented dryly.  “Hadn’t - ACHOO - noticed.”  He gingerly prodded his swollen nose.

Virgil quickly herded him out of the - amazing, fantastic, wonderful - laboratory and into the much more sterle exhibition rooms.

“Thank you.”  Logan fished a handkerchief (because of course he carried a handkerchief) out of his slacks and dabbed at his nose.

“The lab is perfect.”  Virgil mentioned once he was satisfied his friend was alright.  “I’d love to rent it.”

Logan waved a dismissive hand.  “No need for payment.  The room would be wasted other wise.”

Virgil grimaced in discontent, but acquiesced.  Logan was far more stubborn than he.  

“As a matter of fact, let me give you a copy of the key.”  Logan reached into his pocket and found only lint.  “Ah, I seem to have left it downstairs while I was… incapacitated.  Could you get it? I’ve got another tour starting in-”  Logan glanced at his watch before his eyes widened in panic.  “Two minutes ago! Virgil, apologies, it’s downstairs, wait you know that, shoot, I’ve gotta, yeah bye.”  Logan left in a jumbled frenzy of words and distressed gestures.

Fondness curled the corners of Virgil's mouth into a grin.  He loved Logan so much.  

The engineer ambled back downstairs, stopping at the second-to-last door.  He put a hand on the bronze handle before remembering the lab had actually been down one.  This was a break room.  He let go and stepped back with a nervous chuckle; that could’ve been bad.  He turned away but was yanked back by the sound of voices. Voices discussing Logan.

“It’s just so embarassing,”  A gravelly voice complained.  “I hate talking about work with anyone because I don’t want them to find out my boss is a powerless.”

“I know what you mean,” A mousy voice sneered.  “What brain damage does he have, thinkin’ he could ever be in charge of _us_?  I know he’s supposed to be smart, but he’s an idiot.”

“A useless idiot, you mean.”

A high, grating laugh drifted out.  “Amen to that.”

On the other side of that thin door, Virgil stood, shaking with rage.  His hand was on the handle.  All he had to do was turn it.   _Move_ , he told himself. _Open this door and flay the skin off of those bigots until they beg for mercy_ . _Make them bleed._

But he couldn’t.  He didn’t.  He stumbled his way down the hallway until he found a bucket.  He bent over and threw up.  Tears stung at the corners of his eyes.  He was such a coward.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slumped down the wall until he was curled in on himself.  He wished, desperately, someone would come down the gray corridor and ask him what was wrong.  He wished that someone, anyone would come and tell him that it was okay, that no one expected him to take on the whole world by himself.  But nobody came.

It wasn't until he had exhausted his supply of tears that he realized someone already had.  The memory of static, of a voice pledging help and supplies and partnership drifted across his mind.  He wasn’t alone.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself.  He summoned the memory of this morning, the invincibility of lightning running through his veins.   _Calm down_.  And he did.  He unlocked all of his muscles one by one until he could breathe again.  Sighing, he put his hand down at his side; it touched something cold.  Looking down, he saw the key to the lab.  Something that might have passed for a grin spread across his face.   _Get up._  And he did.   _Walk past that door_.  And he did.   _Go to the lab._  And he did.

Last night had been a fever dream, something wonderful and incredible and amazing.  But here, with bile coating his tongue, his heart pounding in his chest, and his fists clenched in silent fury, he was more himself than ever.  

The cold metal biting into the flesh of his palm seemed like as good of a sign as any that he was doing the right thing.  He fit it into the lock and opened the door.

 _Now, go,_ He commanded himself. _And create something incredible._

And he did.


	4. Prince Dude Finally Shows Up

It was love at first sight.  Virgil had fallen in love with the Prince the first time he ever saw him.  

He had been sixteen at the time, an age his mind still liked to conjure ancient cringe contemplations of to torment him during his many sleepless nights.  (No one would ever know about the love poems he had written to The Prince.  Ever.)

He had lived with his parents but tried to stay out of the house as often as possible by picking up a string of part-time jobs.  (His powerless status hadn’t seemed to matter so much in his small hometown.  At least, outside of his home.)  He had been idly doodling rocket ships on his arms in an empty coffee shop when a dramatic blaring of horns from the TV in the corner had drawn his attention.  The anchor at the time, a woman named Coral Mah, had declared that a battle was waging in the nearby city of New Psyche.  

For the next half-hour, Virgil had greedily absorbed every bit of information he could about the fight.  Some super villain named Professor Phobos - Virgil had snorted; super villain names were so dumb, they almost made him glad he would never be one - had built an army of cyborgs that were wreaking havoc on downtown.  He had watched, with something akin to fascination, blurry news footage of twenty-foot robots smashing indiscriminately through everything in their path.  How did they work?  Later that night, he would draw them on parchment paper from memory and puzzle through the inner workings of each one.  It would be the first of many sleepless nights spent making blueprints that waited for him.  

At that moment, however, he had been half-awe, half-horror as destruction reined.  He could still remember the jump his heart had made when Coral had announced someone was fighting back.  

The shaking footage of terrified reporters had just managed to capture a white and red streak smashing into the side of one of the robots, toppling it instantly.  Virgil had sat with the rest of the world, watching this unknown hero save them all.  Their hearts had hitched with every punch thrown, eyes widened with every robot destroyed, and tongues had cried out everytime it had seemed their hero was overwhelmed.  He never was though.  (He still never was.)  The ground had shook one final time, so hard that Virgil had sworn he could almost feel it.

And just like that, it was over.

The world was saved, but no one had known who to thank.  

The on-the-ground reporter, Xiomara Maldonado, had scrambled over the wreckage, camera crew in tow, until she found him.   

The image she had captured of him was later to become the most famous picture of the 21st century.  His white attire and the red slash of fabric across his chest had been riddled with tears and stained with ash, but his head was held high.  He had stood atop the final cyborg, facing away to look over the carnage of a smoldering city.  With the setting sun forming a golden crown in his brown hair, he looked every bit the prince they would come to call him.  

He was the most beautiful thing Virgil had ever seen.  

Although the camera crew had given no indication that they were there, he had turned around.  The camera had zoomed on an immaculate face (how had he not been hurt? They all had wondered, not realizing he couldn’t be.)  Virgil had realized couldn’t belong to someone any older that he.  The world had held its breath as their hero’s rosy lips parted to speak.

“Is anyone hurt?”

And Virgil had fallen in love instantly.

He rolled that memory between his fingertips as he slunk down the darkened streets of New Psyche.  As he neared the town square, he remembered that day and all the days of blind adoration that followed.  He didn’t know what made him sicker: that he had once been so naive, or that he could never be again.

He had followed the Prince’s exploits less and less in his latter teenage years, never quite understanding why they slowly filled him with distaste until he watched the footage of one last post-battle interview.  His had heart sank when he had realized what was missing.  The Prince had stopped asking if everyone was okay.  He had stopped caring.  He donned a cellophane mask of bravado until the world had forgotten it had ever been any other way.  

Virgil wondered why he was the only one who seemed to realize their hero’s disguise was paper-thin.  He wondered what the rotting cadavre under it looked like.  (He wondered what had happened to that kid-turned hero, why he had stopped caring.  He wondered what had happened to that young barista, why he had started caring far too much, why he couldn’t just be complacent.)  He wondered how long it would be before he could rip off the mask and find out himself.  

Virgil was so lost in thought, he didn’t realize he had arrived until he banged his foot into a garbage can.  Swearing under his breath, he clutched at it and hopped up and down a few times.  Once he determined he had no serious injury (although it _hurt_ like one), he limped over to what he was here for.  

The Prince had only gotten more handsome as his soul blackened.  Virgil considered the statue before him.  It stood, bathed in silver moonlight, with hands on hips, chest puffed out proudly, and sash billowing in the wind.  Craning his neck to get a look at its chiseled ( _Patton would be proud,_ he thought bizarrely.)  face, his chest seized with something deeper than loathing.  Here was the effigy of a man who had never spared a thought to those “lesser” than himself.  Here stood, literally placed upon a pedestal, the quintessence of everything he hated in this world: selfishness, bigotry, and corrupted power.  

He was going to love watching it crumble.

Virgil slipped around the base of the pedestal until he was hidden in darkness.  He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a flat black disk.   He placed it reverently in the gap between statue and pedestal.  Releasing a shaking breath, he stepped out of the Prince’s shadow and into a treacherous future.

In less than twenty-four hours, his world would change forever.

Meanwhile, however, he headed home to wait through an endless night for the day to come.

 

Eighteen hours later, a person walked home from work.  Their name is not important; they were just an ordinary citizen and rather inconsequential in the long run.   They were a graying middle-aged person, neither attractive nor hideous, neither short nor tall, and neither male nor female.  Just an ordinary citizen.  They had an Ability of semi-usefulness: no matter where they were, they always found the perfect parking spot.  While not necessarily the most flashy or impressive, it suited them just fine.

They walked past the town square, stopping as per usual to admire the statue of The Prince.  They were always filled with awe whenever they stopped to consider all that he had done for them.  It was right that he was beloved by all.  

As they walked through the nearby park no more than a minute later, they were startled by the sudden sound of falling rubble ripping through the tranquil afternoon.  

Gasps and screams flooded the air.  

“Someone destroyed the statue of The Prince!”  Someone, closer to the square than our citizen, cried out.  Those words incited even more chaos, citizens running with no real destination to seek sanctuary from an unknown threat.  “It just crumbled!”

“Was it Penny Plunder?”  Someone else exclaimed.  “She’s hated him ever since he stopped her plan to melt Fort Knox!”

“No, no!”  Another person wailed.  “SupersWeekly said Lady Luckless threw her into that active volcano last month because she forgot their anniversary!”

The crowd momentarily calmed to shake its collective heads and voice various murmurs of discontent.  

“It really is a shame; they were so cute together…”  Our citizen sighed.

“Well, what do you expect?  You don’t just forget your ten year wedding anniversary like that.”  A girl next to them protested.

A teen next to them sobbed about how Lady Plunder was his OTP and now his tumblr blog dedicated to them was so dead.  Our citizen understood all of those words individually.

“I’m sorry,”  A piercing voice called out over the horde.  The masses briefly shifted enough for our citizen to glimpse a beautiful woman with long blond hair and flashing blue eyes.  “Did everyone forget someone just **destroyed a statue**?”

“Oh, yeah.”  Our citizen mused before rejoining the newly frenzied mob in panicking and running nowhere in particular.  This was some serious cardio.  They really had to get a gym membership.  

“Fear not, citizens!”  A chivalrous, deep voice instantly silenced the crowd.  It was him.

Galloping in on the back of a white horse sat the Prince himself.  

Several people fainted, a few burst into tears of joy, and our citizen felt their heart swell with love.

The Prince pulled his enormous horse astride the throng.  “It has come to my attention,”  He declared.  “That some heinous villain has destroyed the effigy our beloved city has mounted in my honor.  This shall not stand!”

His gathered adorers cheered, swarming forward just to be closer to his magnificent presence.  Our citizen felt themself getting pulled along with the masses, but they were suddenly jostled from behind.  They turned around to see a young man with a gaunt face and sneering lips.  His eyes, marked with bruised purple shadows, bored into their own.  “You know,”  He said, addressing our citizen directly.  “I really hate that guy.”

Our citizen opened their mouth, aghast, ready to berate the man for his terrible criticism of everything our citizen and those around them held dear, but the crowd shifted again and he was gone.

“I, your prince, do solemnly swear to catch this dangerous felon and bring him to justice!”  The Prince concluded, his horse snorting and stamping the ground with a heavily muscled leg as if to verify his words.

His audience cheered.  Yes, The Prince would save them.  Of course, The Prince had always saved them.  People chanted his name, someone procured roses to throw at him, and our citizen could not help their surge of staggering passion.

“I LOVE YOU, MY PRINCE!”  They screamed.  The Prince’s gaze deftly located them in the midst of the throng.  His handsome face split in a thousand-kilowatt grin.

“And I love you, random citizen!” He proclaimed grandly.

Years later, our citizen would still mark that moment as the best second of their life.  (This would occur much to the distress of their wife, who would sigh wretchedly over their wedding albums.)  In fact, the moment was so incredible for them, that even later, when the police were questioning witnesses, the memory of the gaunt young man in the crowd would be swept from their mind.

“But not as much as you love me, right, darling?”  The same blonde woman our citizen had seen earlier stepped out of the masses.  The Prince’s handsome face lit up the instant he spotted her.

“Missy, my love!”  Dismounting - and giving his horse a quick pat and a murmur of “At ease, Maximus.” - The Prince swept her into his arms, dipping her for a passionate kiss.

The crowd sighed in appreciation.  

“Well, isn’t this sweet?”  A vitriolic voice, magnified tenfold by its echos off the surrounding buildings, rang out.  The crowd split, people slowly edging away from this strange apparition until he was standing in a ring of judgemental glares.  

He was tall, especially standing straight and proud.  His skeletal frame, combined with his all-black coat, pants, and scuffed combat boots, inspired the image of a modern-day grim reaper.  He didn’t flinch away from the ogling crowd, but our citizen wondered if anyone else noticed his hands shaking.  His face was obscured with a mass of brown hair and dark eyeshadow, but as his piercing eyes slowly panned across those assembled, each person felt a chill run down their spine.  “You know, Princey,”  His caustic glare finally settled on their hero.  “You really do impress me.”

The Prince puffed his chest out, heedless of Missy timidly huddling behind her boyfriend.  “Why, thank you-”

“With how much of a clueless _moron_ you are.”  The apparition snapped at him, for some reason infuriated after only three words.  He caught himself then took a deep, steadying breath;  He continued speaking in that same sardonically saccharine tone.  “You’re so busy being universally beloved, you forget to look for the person who destroyed your statue in the first place.”

The Prince’s stately face contorted with rage as he stalked towards the felon.

“Oh, no, Princey.”  The apparition wagged a finger before procuring a small device with a red button from one of his many coat pockets.  Citizens began to scramble away in preemptive terror.  “I thought we were having a civilized conversation here.”

Our citizen was buffeted around by the swarming masses, all once again desperate for safety.  They fell and barely managed twist out of the way of several stamping feet. They could see the villain (for that's what he was! a scum-of-the-Earth troublemaker.) hit the red button.

Immediately a low humming filled the air, but when our citizen tried to turn around to see what was happening, they found they couldn’t.  They could view several feet and legs, all as paralyzed as they were, suspended in the air.  

Beyond them, the villain was calmly sauntering towards The Prince, who was just as frozen as everyone else.  He stopped in front of the hero, face intimately close as he looked up at the Prince.  “Do you like this?”  He gestured at the devise.  “It resonates at the exact frequency of the human body, instigating instant paralysis.”  He chuckled, the warm sound misplaced in this tense standoff.  “You wouldn't _believe_ how many times I accidentally froze myself cooking this little baby up.”  

The villain looked into the hero’s eyes.  “Oh, don’t give me that, Princey.”  He reached up and patted the Prince’s cheek patronizingly.  His voice turned oddly soft.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  

He turned to his captive audience.  “I’d never hurt any of you!  I just need you to listen to me.  I’m here to deliver a warning.”  He mounted intensity and agitation with every word.  “The Abled have been lording over this world for far too long.  That’s going to change.  The Unabled have been berated, tortured,”  His voice broke.  “And hurt for far too long.  That’s going to change.  And you, your highness.”  He hissed, whirling around to face the hero.  “You and all of your superbuddies have been delivering your judgement on people who are unable to fight back for far too long.  And guess what?”  He was effervescent, radiating a vicious joy.  “That’s going to change.  But don’t worry!  I wouldn’t want you to have to work that pretty little head too much.  I’m going to help you out with all of this!   _You’re welcome, universe_!”  He grinned, teeth and ambitions ferally bared.  “From now on, heroes are over with.”

He hit the red button, and just as suddenly as everyone had been paralyzed, they were released.  Our citizen staggered to their feet just in time to see the villain neatly sidestep away from the charging Prince.  

The hero’s momentum carried him into the crowd, bowling it over with his might.  The Prince struggled to disentangle himself from the pile of limbs, yelping at a few wandering hands.

But the villain was already gone.

Our citizen frowned.  They were going to be late for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Well, look who finally decided to show up.  
> Also Me: You do realize you're the one writing this, right?  
> Me: Hush now.
> 
> So I tried something new with the narrative perspective in the form of Our Citizen. As much as this is a very Virgil centered fic, it's important to acknowledge that no narrator is entirely free from bias. And what better way to show the thoughts of the general masses than an ordinary citizen?
> 
> As always, please point out any typos! (Or even just an awkwardly worded sentence; I'm trying to become a better writer here, people.)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left Kudos and especially those who have commented on, subscribed to, or bookmarked this work. All of you are wonderful!!!
> 
> EDIT: I uploaded this pretty late last night so I forgot to mention how much I love the new Sanders Sides video! Go watch it right now if you haven't. If theres anything this fic should tell you about me, it's how much I love the villains. Unfortunately, with this chapter, we have our entire cast established, so there's not really any place for me to put the snakey boi. Although maybe a cameo as one of Virge's fellow villains is possible? I think Doctor Deceit has a ring to it.


	5. Local Emo Needs to Chill

The first thing Virgil did after his villainous debuit was dye his hair.  

Well, no.  That’s not quite accurate.

The first thing Virgil did after his villainous debuit was hyperventilate in a dingy alley from a combination of anxiety and exhilaration, then crash on his sagging mattress for a quick nineteen-hour power nap, then grab some hair dye from the corner store.  He had stood, frozen in indecision for what seemed like forever, eyes drifting across shiny boxes.  He really hated shopping.  Eventually, he had told himself to just grab a box without looking.  Hand darting out blindly, he had ended up grabbing _Purple Rain,_ a color oddly reminiscent of Barney’s unshaven armpit.  He had considered trying again, but he had known he’d be there all day if he let himself.  

Besides, the cashier had already began shooting him dirty looks.

In the safety of his own horrendous apartment, he eyed the box; the attractive, young model seemed to be taunting him with her perky smile and perfectly styled locks.  He wondered if he could return it, but even the prospect of looking like the purple teletubby was outweighed by the mental torture of customer exchange.  He knew he had technically just committed a malicious act of vandalism, but the real villains here were whoever made customer service lines so long.

He carefully read the instructions on the side of the box, softly murmuring the words to himself.  Instructions were good.  Instructions meant he wouldn’t accidentally burn off his scalp.  Huddled over his kitchen/living room sink, he sighed.  “Here goes nothing.”

Two hours later, he carefully examined himself in the mirror.  It was definitely different, which meant it was perfect.  He had been foolish to let so many people see him with only makeup and bangs as a disguise.  Especially since he normally obscured his face like that.  As adverse as Virgil normally was to change, he had to admit it: this really was the best option.  

Besides, he thought wryly.  The streets of New Psyche were already filled with extraordinary things; this hair might even help him fit in.

At the same time our villain was examining himself, Logan walked into **Bake My Day**.  

“Lo!”  Patton popped up from behind the display counter, hitting the astronomer full-force with a ruby-red grin.  

“Patton.”  Logan acknowledged, internally scrambling for something more eloquent but only coming up with **Error 404: Witty Comment Could Not Be Found.** “I take it today is more of an ambiguous day?”  

“You know me so well!”  Patton cooed, holding up his baby blue wristband.  “I haven’t had one in so long it kinda… _blue_ me away this morning.”

Logan blinked at him slowly.  For not the first time in his life, he wondered why this was the one person out of an estimated 7.6 billion that immediately released serotonin and dopamine upon visual or mental stimulus.  (The epinephrine was long gone at this point.  When he looked at Patton, he felt content.)  “Terrible pun, notwithstanding, you look rather… fetching.”

Patton flushed prettily.  “Thanks.”

50’s housespouse really was a good look on Logan’s companion.  Patton was buttoned up in a blue blouse, wrapped in a gray polka dot skirt, and painted with black eyeliner and red lipstick.  A strand of pearls shone gently against the silken shirt.  His tanned, freckled skin was complemented by the soft blues and grays; his feet stood in delicate heels.  He was exquisite.

Logan made a conscientious decision to refocus his attention.  “Ever think you’ll graduate over to those purple wristbands Virgil gave you?”

The baker grinned, reaching into the display case.  “And lose my licence to make dad jokes?  I _donut_ think so.”  He slid the pastry across the polished counter.  Logan took a seat and shoved it in his mouth to avoid sighing.

Behind him, the bell jingled merrily as the door swung open.  “Speaking of…”  Patton beamed at the approaching figure.  “Hey there, Kiddo!  Looking pretty nifty there!”

Logan turned, only to choke on his donut as Virgil sat beside him at the counter.  

The newcomer turned to him with a smirk pasted over his twisting anxiety.  “Hello to you too, Logan.”

Logan swallowed and took in his friend’s newly purple plumage.  “It suits you.”  He finally stated.  “Might I ask what brought about the sudden… makeover?”

Virgil shifted uncomfortably.  “Just figured it might be time for a change.”

“Well, I think you look great!”  Patton exclaimed.  “Purple always has been your color.”

Whatever Virgil was about to say was cut off my his stomach rumbling loudly.  

Patton immediately jumped into concerned parent mode.  “Was that you?  Are you hungry?  When was the last time you ate?  You look kinda tired, kiddo, have you been sleeping okay?”

Virgil smiled weakly.  “Don’t worry about it, Pat.  I’m fine.”

Logan closely examined him: shaking hands, gaunt face paler than usual, bruises under his eyes instead of mere shadows, newly colored hair, lying to his friends.  Signs of sleep deprivation, a sudden change in appearance, and this deceit all led him to an alarming conclusion.  “Are you quite sure about that, Virgil?”  

“You know you can tell us anything, right?”  Patton added softly.

Virgil’s face shuttered closed.  He curled into himself, burrowing deeper into his oversized hoodie.  “I’m fine.”  He insisted flatly.  “But I'll take a kolache.”

Patton’s forehead creased in concern, but he acquiesced, bustling back into the kitchen.  His skirt swirled against his long, freckled calves.

“You really should just ask him out, you know.”  Virgil’s voice startled Logan out of his revere.  “It’s obvious you like him.”

“It would be highly inappropriate.”  Logan didn’t bother to deny it.  “Patton deserves a far better match than I could provide.”  Virgil started to protest, but Logan cut him off.  “And of all people, I didn’t expect you to lecture me about taking risks.”

Virgil was silent for a moment, tracing swirls on the marble countertop with his finger.  “I think I’ll be taking more in the future.”

Logan, for reasons he couldn’t name, was suddenly afraid.  “Virgil, please tell me.”  He waited for his friend to look him in the eye.  “Are you really okay?”

“Yes.”  Virgil stated firmly.  Fierceness passed over his face as he looked at the astronomer.  “I’m going to make everything okay.”

Patton emerged from the kitchen, opening the swinging door with his hip.  “One jalapeño kolache.”  He called out cheerfully.  “And one glass of chamomile tea.  An apology for getting… _jalapeño_ business.”

Virgil laughed far too loudly and deeply for a pun of that simplicity.  Several customers looked over, startled.  A group of regulars, detectives from the local precinct, jumped.  Even Patton looked taken aback.  When Virgil sobered, an edge of something wild remained.  “Thanks, Pat.”

He devoured the pastry in less than a minute and drank the tea in one gulp.  

Worry reappeared on the baker’s face.  “Hungry there, Kiddo?”

Virgil wiped his mouth with his sleeve.  “Yeah, I haven’t eaten in…”  He cut himself off.  “A while.”  He shifted guilty.  “I ran out of food.”

“How do you just run out of food?”  Patton cried.  “That’s it;  I’m taking you grocery shopping right now.”

As the voice of reason, Logan felt obligated to interject.  “Patton, as altruistic as your intentions may be, it would be illogical to close your bakery at rush hour.  Virgil, your behavior is frankly concerning.  I believe it would be a great burden off of both Patton and I if you allowed him to accompany you to the store tomorrow.”

Patton grumbled but agreed.  

Virgil did the same.

“Splendid.”  Logan hummed in satisfaction.

A easy silence settled over the three friends.  Deceit aside, the three of them were always been there for each other.  Logan and Virgil would keep the astronomer’s crush under wraps unless the proper time came;  Patton and Logan would conspire to find out the source of their friend’s affliction;  Virgil would keep fighting to make the world better for his friends, no matter the cost.  It was the three of them against the world.

Patton ducked down into the display case and grabbed a pistachio macaron.  “Here, Kiddo.”  He slid the cookie to Virgil.  “I’m trying out a new recipe!”

Virgil took the treat reverently and gently bit into it.  It was perfect.  A firm crust covered a light, fluffy inside.  The cream in the middle complimented the nutty taste of the cookies and left a pleasant, refreshing aftertaste.

Patton looked at his friend’s face.  Virgil’s eyes were closed in bliss.  The worry line in the middle of his forehead smoothed out; he seemed impossibly young in the warm afternoon light.  Something in Patton’s chest ached.  A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him.  His friend was hiding something, probably something bad, and he couldn’t do anything to help.  All he could offer was a stupid cookie.

Virgil’s gray eyes opened.  “Delicious.”

A sudden blaring of horns filled the cozy shop.  Everyone’s attention was drawn to the small flat screen TV in a corner opposite the display case.  Kaimi Alvi’s lovely face appeared.  She smiled affectionately at the audience before turning somber.  “The official police report on the dreadful attack on The Prince’s statue has just been released.”

A sense of horror welled up in Virgil’s stomach.

“Police are deeming this attack a hate-motivated crime, possibly the first act of an up-and-coming supervillain.  Allegedly, the unknown criminal in question was a tall, brunette male who delivered a manic speech in which he declared that he would ‘end all heroes’.”

Virgil’s breaths started coming in shorter, shallower bursts.  That wasn’t what he said.

“The villain seemed to have a personal vendetta against The Prince, one that, according to our local criminal psychologist, Dr. Edward Filistein, could stem from jealousy.  We have Dr. Filistein in the studio with us now.”  The screen split to display both Kami and an elderly, erudite man, settled in front of an obviously green screened bookshelf.  “Dr. Filistein, thank you so much for joining us.  Would you like to share the fascinating insight you can offer on this villain’s state of mind and put together a possible profile?”

“Of course, Ms. Alvi, and thank you so much for having me.”  The psychologist’s voice squeaked like it was in desperate need of oil from years of disuse.  “The criminal in question obviously harbors a personal grudge against The Prince, as obvious from his strategically placed attack on the very symbol of his power.  He is clearly disgruntled with the natural order of our society.  It is likely he has a lesser power, such as the ability to always open a book to the page he needs, or something to do with mechanics, based on the descriptions of the machine he used to paralyze his audience.  That act in and of itself suggests he is unused to being listened to, and therefore believes he must force his audience to listen.  Of course, it is possible he has no power at all, but the notion of an unabled pulling off this type of attack is almost comically inconceivable.”  He wheezed out a laugh; it sounded like the dying cry of the world’s oldest whoopie cushion.  Kami, to her credit, looked uncomfortable, but smiled politely nonetheless.

Virgil’s ears started ringing.  He couldn’t stay here. Spilling off of his stool, he garbled out an apology to his friends and started running.  A cry came from behind him; a call to “Wait!” as he burst through the swinging glass doors.  The bell jangled violently behind him as he bolted down the street.  His eyes were blurry; he barreled through the streets and the people around him.  

“Watch it!”  A blonde woman with flashing blue eyes snapped at him.

 _Home,_ he thought, desperately, frantically.   _I want to go home._  He ran until spots swam in front of his eyes then he ran some more.  His legs were weak; his chest ready to burst.  When he finally stopped, he bent over, gasping.  In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea to try to run in skinny jeans.  

He looked up and found himself at the outside door to his lab.  He thought of his overwrought longing a moment ago and chuckled weakly.  His lungs still weren’t working right.  He fit the key into the door and stepped out of the afternoon sunlight gratefully.

He stumbled down the spiral staircase and into the large, domed room.  He felt tension leave his shoulders as he took a shaking breath of oil and electricity.  His heart slowed its frantic pace and his hands ceased shaking.  Home, he had thought.  And here was home.

He drifted back over to the pile of scraps he had built the rock destabilizing gadget and his freeze remote from.  Right in front of him, he had the power to create anything he could wish.  He had proven that.  At this moment, however, all he wanted was to tinker.

He grabbed a .03mm phillips head, some metal, and a wire.  He stripped the wire with his teeth as he strode over towards the soldering bench.  

Patton.  He’d make an apology for worrying Patton.  

He handled the metal tenderly, gently nudging it into whatever shape it wanted.  He sometimes imagined the tools in his hands guiding him instead of visa versa.  He could force them whichever way he wanted, but it was much more pleasant to let things happen organically.  A head formed then two long ears sprouted.  Virgil placed it softly on a rack to cool before turning to dig through his scrap pile for gears.  His invention had told him what it would become.  His hands moved like a dance, first fitting two gears together, then screwing in a new plate, finally etching the casing with elaborate swirls.  The parts amalgamated like pieces of a puzzle.  His heart beat steadily in his chest.  He hummed something haunting and melodic under his breath.  

Hours later, he was as calm as he could ever remember being.  He set his clockwork gadget gently on a cool silver table and turned the key on its back.  It worked exactly as he intended it to.  He smiled as he watched the mechanical rabbit twitch its nose, flick its ears, then raise on its hind legs to paw at its face, as if washing.

Tomorrow he could give it to Patton before they went grocery shopping.  Tomorrow he might receive another phone call from his anonymous partner in crime.  Tomorrow he could deal with the lies on TV and The Prince and the dangerous path he had set for himself.  Tomorrow he might be able to come up with a lie to explain his behavior to his friends.  But all of that could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight he sat with his knees on the floor and his head resting on the arms he had crossed on the chilled metal laboratory table, watching a mechanical rabbit hop, twitch, and wash in a set loop.  Tonight he had aching hands and a stiff back and a light heart.  Tonight he was content.

Tonight he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patton is gender fluid (but prefers masculine titles and pronouns) and no one can stop me. But honestly, this entire chapter was just an excuse to make Virgil's hair purple.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudos, bookmarks, subscribes, and especially those of you who comment! To those who have commented on the majority of the chapters: I love you! Yes, you specifically.
> 
> TBH I am well aware this chapter isn't as dramatic as the others, but the next one is already written and weighting in at a whooping 5.4K so... be prepared.
> 
> As always, feel free to roast me if you see a typo.


	6. Local Baker Oblivious to Awkward Encounter

“It’s a mech- _animal_ !”  Patton exclaimed in delight.  The two were standing in the doorway to Patton’s (much larger, _much_ nicer than Virgil’s) apartment.

Virgil bit back a grin.  “I was just going to call it an apology.”  He waited until Patton’s blue eyes were trained on him to continue.  “I really shouldn’t have just bailed on you yesterday.  I know that probably freaked you out.”  He rubbed the back of his neck, shamefaced.

“Aw, kiddo.”  Patton cooed in the exact same tone he had cooed at his new clockwork rabbit.  “Don’t you worry about your pop.  I know I can be…”  He stroked the smooth silver ears of the gadget in his hands.  “Overbearing at times.”

(His fear of being overbearing was what had kept him from bolting down the street after Virgil yesterday. Well, that and Logan’s warning hand on his shoulder.  He had watched Virgil run a crooked line down the block with the seams in his heart threatening to tear.  “What’s wrong with our kiddo?”  He had whispered.  

Logan had quickly herded him into the back kitchen.  “Patton, you need to calm down.  Virgil will be fine, he was clearly heading in the direction of the planetarium.  You will do him no favors by hyperventilating.”

Patton’s light head had suddenly made much more sense.  “What’s wrong with our kiddo?  What happened to him?”  He had repeated.  His cheeks were wet with salt water.

Logan had silently gathered Patton into his arms, letting the shorter of the two sob against his chest.  He had rubbed soothing circles into the baker’s back, drawing on techniques he had studied for when Virgil endured panic attacks.  “Breathe, Patton.  You need to breathe.”

Patton had shakily copied the exaggerated pattern the man holding him had demonstrated until he could speak without bursting into tears.

“What’s wrong with him, Logan?”  He had asked the man who always knew the answer.  “Is he okay?”

Logan had looked down at him and gently wiped a stray tear off of Patton’s cheek.  “I don’t know.”  He had said, and it sounded like something inside of him was breaking.)

“Pat, No!”  Virgil rushed to assuage his discomfort.  “I just kinda freaked back there.  You know how I feel about old white guys with PhDs.”  He tacked on with a smirk.

Patton laughed in delight.  “Like that time you were so sleep-deprived you stood on a table at the bakery and yammered on about that Herbert Spinach guy?”

“Spencer.”

“I may not eat my vegetables, but I can at least name them.”

Virgil felt his lips twitch up.

“Speaking of veggies,”  Patton continued, gently setting his new pet on a side table in the entryway (The many times Virgil had been inside, it had only confirmed his theory an entryway wasn’t supposed to be approximately four square feet).  “Let’s see what’s in _store_ for us!”

This time, Virgil couldn’t help but groan.

The grocery store around the corner was the type of brand that _knew_ you had no better option than to shop there.  Rows of boxed and canned goods sat on gray metal racks that gleamed duly under the harsh fluorescent lighting.  A small selection of fresh food sat moldering away in a neglected back corner.  Dead-eyed shoppers drifted like zombies between glossy tributes to capitalism.  A woman with long blonde hair perused the beauty isle.  Despite the store’s considerable size, there appeared to be only two customers on staff: a glowering middle aged man and a teen with half-lidded eyes idly scrolling through Tumblr while a customer very obviously tried to get her attention.  Virgil related to the latter on a spiritual level.

“Did you get your list put together, kiddo?”  Patton pawed at him to get his attention.

Virgil reached into the pocket of his oversized black hoodie and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“Is this written… on blueprint paper?”

“Maybe.”

Patton surveyed it for a moment.  Virgil took that time to admire the single-minded determination of his friend in full Dad-mode.

“Let’s start with the dairy.”

Virgil let Patton drag him around the store, occasionally humming a confirmation on an item or grimacing in distaste.  Before too long, the cart was halfway filled.  “I think this should do you for now, Kiddo!”  Patton chirped before he was struck with a sudden thought.  “Actually, remember that thing I was telling you about last week?”

Virgil wracked his mind.  “You’re going to have to be more specific, Pat.”

Patton flailed a hand.  “You know… the thing.  With the shelter.”

Virgil stared blankly.

Patton sighed.  “It was at the bakery last Tuesday and you were wearing a black hoodie and Logan was wearing a navy polo with that galaxy print tie I got him for Christmas two years ago with a pair of blue jeans that looked really good on him and he had done his hair differently than usual so it was extra poofy and he had just complimented my new shortbread cookies and I was saying that I was sad they went bad so quickly but then I got a _‘bread’_ er idea than just throwing them out and he groaned and you laughed?”

Virgil blinked slowly.  “Are you telling me you remember exactly what Logan was wearing?”

Patton flushed.  “I remembered what you were wearing too.”  

“I wear a black hoodie everyday.”  Virgil countered dryly. “Obvious crush aside, yeah, I remember.”

“Do you still want to?”  Patton gushed in excitement.  “It’ll be so fun!”

Virgil privately thought that it wasn’t exactly his idea of _fun,_ necessarily.  “Sure.”

“Yay!  I’ll go grab some extra sugar.  And sprinkles!  Lots of sprinkles.”  Patton skipped off.

Virgil went back to perusing the tea section.  The ability to buy whatever kind he wanted was an unprecedented luxury for him.   _I could even buy two,_ he thought with a sudden thrill.  Not for the first time, he was swept with a wave of gratitude for his mysterious benefactor.  The voice on the other end of the phone was giving him a life he never would have believed possible only a month ago.

Speaking of voices - an obnoxious voice was booming something indistinct outside the store.  There was the sound of… cameras?  And something like a screaming mob.  What on Earth?

He wondered if Patton was okay.

The sonorous voice grew faster, almost impercibly nervous.  Virgil didn’t suppose anyone else would notice, but if there was something he knew, it was anxiety.

The voice suddenly cut off; confused murmurs permeated the air.

Virgil went back to debating the various benefits of lemon versus chamomile.

Heavy footsteps and ragged breathing pounded a rack of bread (and Crofter’s delicious Jam and Peanut Butter Swirl) over.

Lemon tea was good for keeping him awake.  He chucked two boxes into the cart.

Someone was muttering to themselves.  The heavy footsteps lumbered closer.  Virgil glanced up in idle curiosity then immediately did a double take.  It was him.  The Prince had been unrecognizable at first.  His face was obscured by a pair of large reflective sunglasses and his iconic crime fighting uniform had been replaced by jeans, a white t-shirt, and a red leather jacket.

Virgil panicked and acted on instinct.  He tried to hide behind the wire cart.  Crouching down by the speciality jams (boysenberry? muskadime?),  he mentally willed himself to blend into the background.

“You okay down there?”  Virgil looked up to see The Prince looming above him, head tilted.  A smile that must’ve been secretly condescending played on his lips.

Instinct failed.  

“What?  Yes, no, I mean... yeah.”  Virgil stood up and brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off of his hoodie.  “I just, um…”  Saw you and went into fight-or-flight mode because I destroyed that statue of you a few days ago.  So not sorry about that by the way.  “Recognized you.”

The Prince’s expression switched from that of an ordinary person to a camera worthy beam so quickly the emo almost got whiplash.  “Well, of course you did!”  He laughed.  Virgil wondered why he sounded slightly bitter about that.

“Right.”  The villain slowly edged away from the hero.  “Well, it was nice to meet you, big fan, but I gotta go.”  He lied.

The Prince flipped up his sunglasses and narrowed his brown eyes, stately countinance slipping ever so slightly.  “You appear familiar.”  He brightened and took a step forward.  “Are we acquainted from the hair salon?”

“Yes,”  Virgil agreed emphatically, still retreating backwards.  He managed to get the cart between the hero and himself.  “Yes, that is definitely the one and only place we know each other from.”

“Wait, what am I talking about?”  The Prince threw back his head and laughed a perfectly practiced chuckle.  “My hair is naturally this magnificent.”

Virgil’s blood boiled.  The pig in front of him didn’t deserve to laugh so freely.  “You really are a clueless moron.”  He snapped before he could stop himself.

The Prince went stock still for a moment.  “You.”

Adrenaline shot through Virgil’s system.  “Ha, what, no?  We’ve never met before-”

The breath was knocked from his lungs.  In the time it took for him to blink, The Prince had moved.  Virgil found himself pinned against a cold metal shelf with one of The Prince’s hands wrapped around his neck.  The racks of jelly digged uncomfortably into his back.

“Did you really think you could live an ordinary life among these fair citizens, you miscreant?”  The Prince boomed.  “The hero always prevails.”  He raised his arm slightly and Virgil found his feet dangling in the air.  Dang this guy was tall.  “You know those reporters out there were just asking about you.  I imagine they’ll be pleased to see you in person.  Or, better yet, in handcuffs.”

 _Kinky_ , Virgil thought.  The lack of oxygen was getting to his brain.

The Prince stepped impossibly closer,  his breath brushing across Virgil’s rapidly purpling face.  “Imagine, I was almost afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you again.”

“Wow.  Good job.  I’m sure all the other bigoted fools out there are so proud.  Why don’t you go save a puppy for a little girl, Prince Putrescence.”  Virgil tried to snark; all that came out was a strangled gasp.  

Something crossed across the hero’s face.  He quickly lowered Virgil, but just as rapidly crowded in closer, putting up his arms to bar any escape.  “You don’t get to pass out before your trial.”  He glowered down at his captive.

“Not just going to kill me now?”  Virgil rasped.  “You already act like judge and jury, might as well be executioner.”

The hero growled.  “Don’t tempt me.”

“Kiddo?”  A soft voice floated down to the foes.

Virgil’s head snapped towards it.  Patton stood at the end of the isle.  With his gray cardigan flaring out over his shoulders and bright florescent lights streaming behind him, he looked like a guardian angel.  

To his confusion, however, Patton smiled brightly.  “You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone!”

“What?  I’m not…”  Virgil suddenly realized how this must’ve looked.  He was pinned against a flat surface, obviously out of breath, and mussed from being manhandled.  The Prince’s flush of anger could easily be mistaken for a blush; his arms around Virgil could be taken as an intimate flirtation.  

Patton, bless him, apparently found it easier to believe that he had scored than that he would be engaged in a violent altercation in an off-brand WalMart with the world’s most powerful man in the middle of the day.  

“We’re not really putting any labels on things yet.”  The Prince smoothly stepped away from Virgil and held his hand out for Patton to shake.  “I’m Roman Garcia.  Nice to meet you.”

What.  The.  Actual-

“For sure!”  Patton pumped his hand enthusiastically.  “I’m Patton Morales.”

Virgil was dead.  That was the only explanation.  He had died and been sent to a Twilight Zone-esque hell for his crimes against humanity.  He knew he had needed to stop drinking out of styrofoam cups.

“Kiddo?”  Virgil looked up to see his best friend and mortal nemesis looking at him with concern and hate, respectively.  

“Yeah.”  Virgil croaked out tentatively.  “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to meet… Roman so quickly.  We’ve been taking it slow.”  He figured that if he really was trapped in purgatory, they might let him out if he played along.

“Aw, kiddo, embarrassed of your old pop?”

“More like the the other way around.”

“Huh?”

“What?  Nothing.”  Virgil’s eyes darted around frantically.  “Hey, Patton, I think I’m out of… milk.”

“You’ve got some right there in the cart.”

Virgil picked up the jug of milk, looked at it, and chucked it over his shoulder.  “I don’t like this kind.  Can you get some more please?”

The jug had cracked open and was now trickling the thin, white liquid onto the floor.

“O-okay?”  Patton’s forehead creased in confusion, but he ambled away from the pair of enemies.

“What was that?”  Virgil whirled on The Prince but slunk back as he realized this guy had just lifted him into the air by the neck.  “What did you just do?”  He hissed quietly from a safe distance.

The Prince glowered back.  “That was obviously an innocent civilian who, for some unfathomable reason, is partial to you.  I’m not about to traumatize him by attacking you while he’s standing right there.”

“But that doesn’t give you the right to _lie_ to him!  Or pretend that we’re…”  Virgil choked around the word dating.  It didn’t want anything to do with him and the dogmatist in front of him.

“I thought we were taking it slow,”  The Prince taunted him.  He seemed like he was enjoying this way too much for someone under duress.  

Something in Virgil’s mind clicked.

“You can’t arrest me.”  He said, pieces of a desperate gamble falling into place.

The hero’s eyes widened.  “What?”

Virgil pasted confidence over his features and smirked.  “You heard me, Princey.”  He stalked forward.  “Do you have any real evidence against me?  Anything other than circumstantial?”  He waved a hand to silence any protests the hero made before they even fell from his lips.  “Sure you can drag me in, testify, and all that jazz; but until you have any solid proof that I was the one who blew up your statue, you might have just dragged an innocent civilian to jail.”  He leaned in, a veneer of malevolence masking the anxiety that he was shooting from the hip.  “What will the public think of you then?”

“They saw you!”  The Prince cried, aghast.  “That entire crowd!  They know what you look like!”

Virgil hummed.  Secretly, he was ready to cheer that his bluff had paid off, but it wasn’t a done deal yet.  “As far as I heard, that new villain had brown hair and raved about how he was going to ‘end all heroes’.  I, as you see, have purple hair.”  He leaned forward and stood on his tiptoes to whisper directly into The Prince’s ear.  “And we both know I never said that.”

The villain rocked back on his heels and enjoyed watching the hero’s face contort in distress.  If there was one advantage of knowing anxiety first-hand, it was that he was particularly adept at installing it in others.  Usually, he didn’t equip this particular skill, since his two friends were the only people he would have the chance to use it on, but there was something magnificent about watching the world’s most powerful man becoming ensnared in the web of convoluted logic Virgil had spun.

The Prince’s square jaw worked, smooth skin rippling as he ground his teeth together in frustration.  “Fine.”  He grit out.

Virgil steeled himself.  Only one thing left to do.  “Good,”  He said, scraping up as much authority as he could muster.  “Now go before-”

“Patton’s back!”  The person in question sang out, floating down the aisle with a fresh jug of milk and some paper towels.  “Sorry, I took so long, kiddos!  I tried to get someone to help with the… leaky milk, but the kid up there seemed very interested on something on her phone.  I got these paper towels though!  Don’t I deserve a _Patton_ the back for that?”

The Prince blinked in surprise.  “Did you just make a self-referential pun?”

Virgil’s leg bounced erratically.  “Yes, he does that, ha, very funny.  Don’t you have somewhere to be-”

“Because puns aren’t _Roman_ too far out of my interests!”  The hero grinned, obviously pleased as Patton giggled.

Virgil revisited his literally-in-hell theory.

“I Gar- _see_ -a why Virgil likes you!”  Patton grinned.

It was the time he threw his plastic take-out container in the trash instead of the recycling, even thought it was only a few feet away, wasn’t it?

“I thought it was my good looks, Mor-or-less.”

I mean, the whole statue thing _was_ kinda illegal, but he was fairly certain the big man upstairs understood his motives for that.

“You know,”  Patton chirped, placing the milk in the cart.  “You should come with us!  We’re about to bake cookies for the-”

“No!”  Virgil burst out.  “No, _Roman_ here was just telling me he had somewhere to be; so that’s a shame.  He can’t make it.”

The Prince made a show of checking his phone.  “Well would you look at that?  My schedule just cleared up.”  

Patton cheered.  He laid the paper towels down over the spill then once he scooped up a jar of Crofters - murmuring something about making Logan thumbprint cookies - he began pushing the cart towards the check-out lane.  The other two trailed behind him.

“Why are you following us?”  Virgil hissed.

“I may not be able to arrest you, but I can at least keep an eye on you.”

“All I’m doing is grocery shopping!”

“ _Evil_ grocery shopping!”

Virgil resigned himself to his fate.  The villain and the hero walked down the store aisles side-by-side.

“Besides, I didn’t lie.  My name is common knowledge.”  The latter spoke again.

It took the former a second to figure out what the over-privileged moron was referencing.  “No?  I’ve literally never heard it before.”  This was saying something, considering the numerous fan clubs he had been in high school.  “That’s actually your real name?”

Roman shot him a side glare.  “Got a problem with it, my chemically imbalanced romance?”

“I’m going to let the emo joke slide this time, Prince Prep.  I just wouldn’t think you’d bandy it around so casually.”

“Like I said: Common knowledge.”

Virgil honestly hadn’t even thought of The Prince as having an actual person name.  He was like Oprah or Adele (but a classist jerk).  Now that Virgil actually considered it, he had no idea what The Prince - What _Roman Garcia_ ’s life had been like before he had saved the world the first time.  It had always seemed like he had just spawned when they had needed him and hadn’t got the message to get back into the PokeBall already.

They caught up with Patton at the check-out in silence.

Patton, on the other hand, was cheerfully trying to engage the middle-aged cashier in a conversation, seemingly undeterred by the grunts he got in return.  Virgil dug out his wallet and gave his friend his credit card.  He could afford it now.

“Hold up.”  The cashier stopped them before they could reload all of the groceries.  “I’m going to need to check your cart.”

Patton and Virgil consented with a cheerful ‘okay!’ and an eyeroll, respectively.  The Prince, however, frowned.

“Is there a problem?”  He demanded.

The cashier shrugged uncomfortably.  “Store policy.”

Virgil scoffed.  “He thinks we’re going to steal something just because we’re Unabled.”

Roman blanched and the cashier had the good grace to at least look embarrassed.  “It’s just that, statistically-”

Patton softly told him it was okay; the man smiled thinly and thoroughly searched inside the plastic cart.  “Let me get these for you.”

The three quietly watched him load plastic bags.  When he was done, they left.

“So, kiddo,”  Patton smiled, fragile and overly-bright.  “Why don’t we just drop these groceries off at your apartment then we can get to baking for-”

“OR!”  Virgil exclaimed.  “We could just get straight to baking?  It’s getting kinda late; they might close up soon.”  If the Prince of Prejudice insisted in tagging along, it was much safer to take him to **Bake My Day** than anywhere near Virgil’s apartment.

“Oh!  You’re so right!”

They grabbed the grocery bags - Roman insisted on taking the majority, leading Patton to giggle about how strong he was and Virgil to growl - and traveled down the street.  The baker filled the air with dad jokes and little anecdotes about the sorts of customers he got.  He was halfway through a story about the time a group of old ladies had met there for a knitting circle, (but one of them had smuggled in a bottle of vodka!) when they arrived at the cheerful purple building.

He continued to chatter cheerfully as he unlocked the door and gestured them back into the kitchen.  

That’s how, a little while later, Virgil found himself baking cookies with his mortal nemesis and his best friend, who thought he was going out with said mortal nemesis.  He wondered when Rod Serling would show up to lecture the audience on the lessons that could be learned from his misfortune.

“Think you made enough dough there, Pat?”  The Prince quipped, leaning over the baker’s shoulder to look into the industrial sized mixer.  Virgil simmered in anger.  Pat was his nickname for Patton.  He clenched an egg so tightly it cracked in his fist, yolk oozing out from between his fingers.

“Careful with the ingredients, kiddo!”  The baker called over the loud whirring of the mixer.  “We’ve got a lot of hungry people to feed.”

Virgil slunk over to the stainless steel sink to wash his hands off, shaking them to sling egg goo off.  A bit landed on The Prince’s previously perfectly white shirt, and he allowed himself a smile.

The Prince glowered.

“Careful, Princey,”  Virgil murmured, leaning past him to move a bowl of finished dough closer to his workstation.  “Think of your corporate sponsorships.”  The villain could remember, quite vividly, the Old Spice commercial the beloved hero had filmed years ago.  (No one could ever know how long a shirtless picture of the powerhouse standing beside him had been his home screen.  Ever.)  

His hands were still wet, and in a move of supreme pettiness, he dried them on the hero’s shirt.

Roman growled, voice barely audible under the humming of the electronic mixer.  “I’m going to enjoy watching you rot in a jail cell, you foul fiend.”

Virgil continued to run his hands up and down the hero’s chest.  “I didn’t know you were so voyeuristic, babe.”  It was liberating to be mean to someone whose opinion he didn’t have to worry about.  For once, he and his brain were actually on the same side.

“I have a girlfriend.”

Oh yeah, the famous Missy Darnell.  Her and The Prince’s love story was actually relatively well-known, even inspiring several movies.  She had been a reporter assigned to his case after he defeated Doctor Deceit, the villian who had managed to impersonate the president for a month.  Apparently, she had been standing on top of a building trying to get a good picture of him during battle the second time he fought Mistress Malice, but when he had been knocked back into the skyscraper, it had destabilized.  He had caught her when she was falling, and after he had saved the day yet again, he dipped her for a passionate kiss in front of a golden sunset (and several dozen paperazzi).  

Virgil detached himself with a scoff and got back to work.  He rolled the dough into quarter-inch spheres before placing them at regular intervals on the baking sheet before him.

The hero clumsily copied him, but it wasn’t until Patton popped over to check on their progress that Virgil noticed just how badly he was doing.  Even Patton struggled to find something positive to say.  Irregular intervals, a wide disparity of sizes, and crooked spheres - the dough looked like it had just been haphazardly splattered across the sheet.

“You look like you’ve never baked before.”  The villain couldn’t help but cackle.

“Now, kiddo, be nice to your friend here!  I’m sure he-”  Patton cut off as he caught Roman’s expression.  “Oh my stars you’ve never baked before.”  

Roman shrugged uncomfortably.  “Not for years.  Work keeps me busy.”

Patton immediately pulled a Logan and began instructing the superhero on the best way to roll the cookies, why they need to be so far apart, and how to not handle them so much so the butter didn’t melt.

Virgil just slid his tray into the oven, leaned against the wall, and observed.  Time hadn’t dulled the shock of seeing his least favorite person in all of existence in one of his safe spaces.  He kept from wailing by entertaining the fantasy of hitting The Prince over the head with a baking sheet.  In actuality, all he would do was ruin one of Patton’s utensils, but a guy could dream.  A flame still licked at the inside of his ribcage.

With Patton’s help, the incompetent Prince finally managed to assemble a half-decent batch of cookies.  Virgil slid that one in and took his batch, perfectly golden brown, out.  He debated setting the timer for the Prince’s batch too high and burning them, but they actually really needed all the cookies they could get for this.

“So,”  Patton chirped, sliding the cookies onto a cooling rack.  “How’d you two meet?”

The foes looked at each other with twin gazes of alarm.  

“Work!”  Virgil blurted out.

“A coffee shop!”  Roman declared simultaneously.

They glared at each other.  

“I was going to see if I could get work-”  Virgil started.

“At a coffee shop-”  The Prince interjected.

“Yeah, and once I picked up an application-”

“-I saw him and decided to approach him-”

“-and I was like ‘woah this guy is sketchy, better not’ -”

“-but then he was bowled over by my good looks and charm-”

“-and he was so smitten I made him buy me a black coffee-”

“-but I refused because that is a _dreadful order, seriously how could you drink that_ -”

“-so I just rolled my eyes and made to walk away, but then he groveled some and bought it for me-”

“-so we sat and I was incredibly fascinating and handsome-”

“-yes, I was enthralled by his stamp collection, which is the most interesting thing about him.  Roman’s life isn’t really that exciting-”

“-oh and I was so riveted by his story of the time he went to a Panic! At the Disco concert and immediately burst into tears at the sight of Brendon Urie-”

“-and I was like, well you certainly know a lot about emo bands for someone who keeps dissing the music -”

“-but then Robert _Downer_ Junior over here decided that I was the most charismatic man he would ever meet and agreed to swap numbers-”

“-and here we are.”  Virgil glared.  “Aren’t we, babe?”

“Sure are, hun.”  Roman’s smile was fueled by enough sarcasm to power a city block.

“Awww,”  Patton cooed.  “That’s cute!”

He looked like he was about to say more, but the oven beeped; he rushed to take out The Prince’s batch.

“I hate you so much.”  The Prince hissed while Patton was distracted.

“I fantasize about feeding you to sharks.”  Virgil retorted.

Half an hour, several aborted assassination attempts, and four cans of sprinkles later, they were ready.  Patton locked up the bakery, patted its purple wall fondly, then led the way down the block.

The United Nationally Across Boundaries in Loving Every Denizen homeless shelter was an austere building with strips of gray peeling paint hanging off the side.  A rusting chain-link fence enclosed a small yard with scraggly grass desperately trying to leach moisture out of the hard, dry ground.  The three walked along a cracked concrete sidewalk that seemed like its secret ambition in life was to become an accordion and therefore must have chunks sticking up as often as physically possible.  

The drab exterior, however, was nothing compared to the sheer feeling of desolation that permeated the air inside.  A chilly concrete floor had rickety tables and creaking chairs bolted down to it.  An ancient behemoth of a TV perched precariously in one corner, blaring state sponsored lies about the goodness of Abilities and their necessity to the democratic world.  Some residents chatted feebly or put in the effort to walk around the large barren room, but for the most part, groups sat around listlessly.  This wasn’t a place to go when you were down on your luck; this was where you went when there would never be anywhere else for you.  Virgil had often wondered if it was intentional or cruel irony that the shelter’s acronym described almost everyone inside.

Virgil caught a glimpse of a man in a red t-shirt with a golden star on it and felt his mood lift slightly.  At least not every Abled person here was the worst.

“Thomas!”  Patton exclaimed, waving cheerfully.

“Patton!”  The director of the shelter waved back, equally enthusiastic.  Virgil felt his lips twitch in an involuntary smile.  He didn’t talk to Thomas that often, but he had always felt strangely fond of the man.  “How are you?”  Thomas reciprocated the hug the baker offered and smiled at Virgil.  A large portion of that affection probably came from his respect of Virgil’s boundaries.

“We brought cookies.”  Virgil held up a bag in lieu of a response.

“Greetings!”  The Prince proclaimed grandly.  “I am-”  He suddenly realized that he was supposed to be incognito.  “Roman.  Garcia.  Nice to meet you!”

“You too!”  Thomas responded brightly.  “It’s always nice to see new helpers around here.”  His perky demeanor slipped slightly.  “We really needed this.  That new bill the governor just passed managed to both cut our funding _and_ basically approve of discrimination while hiring.”

Virgil thought bitterly of his NASA rejection letter.  “I heard.”

“So…” Roman looked around the plainly room.  “This is a homeless shelter?”

Thomas smiled ironically.  “Technically.  But it mainly serves as a… holding place.  For the Unabled.  If most can’t get jobs and can’t get housing, the government has to put them somewhere.”  

Thomas himself had a pretty impressive power:  the ability to sing people to sleep.  Virgil had heard him sing before;  the dreamy weightlessness that had filled his body had been intoxicating.  It was no wonder he was in charge of a shelter filled with troubled people.  He, much like Patton, always managed to turn any situation into something wonderful.  

“New Psyche is a big city, so we’ve usually got about a hundred a night staying here.  Sometimes more.  Not all are Unabled, but most are.”

The hero’s forehead creased.  “Oh.”

Patton didn’t allow the pensive silence to settle.  “Well, c’mon!  Let’s give out some cookies!”

The four of them spent the next hour handing out cookies and talking to the residents.  Patton was immediately mobbed by a group of kids, attracted by his dad aura and the smell of freshly baked sweets.  Thomas circulated the room, handing out treats with a smile and making sure everyone was taken care of.  Virgil quietly gave his bag to a family huddled in a corner.  The moms looked so happy; even under the harsh fluorescent lights, they glowed with joy as they watched their young son happily chew on a cookie.  The Prince, despite initially looking out of his element, quickly started to regale a group of teens with an over-dramatic story about a medieval king and his mortal nemesis, a fearsome sorcerer.  

“The king was confused by all of the things this sorcerer was showing him,”  He said.  “He had never even noticed all the problems in his kingdom before.  He didn’t trust the sorcerer, or even like him, but he wanted to help his people.”

“Does that man look familiar to you?”  The man Virgil had just handed a cookie to asked him.

Virgil glanced at Roman, alight with passion as he waved his hands, theatrically acting out the time the King had attacked the evil sorcerer while he was picking herbs for his potions.

“No.”  Virgil said.  “He really doesn’t.”

Soon, however, all the cookies were gone.  Patton disentangled himself from the kids with a sigh and Virgil slunk over to his side.  “Roman!”  The baker called.  “You ready to go?”

The storyteller stopped, hands suspended in midair.  

“No!”  A teen cried.  “I need to know what happens next!”

Roman hesitated, then smiled.  “I’ll tell you what,”  His hands drifted back down by his sides. “I’ll continue the story next time I come.”

A boy with a purple beanie asked, “So you’ll be back?”

Roman’s eyes took in the gray walls, the hollow faces drenched in shadow, the joy that a few cookies had brought.  “You know, I really think I will.”

He joined the villain and the baker as they waved goodbye to Thomas and stepped into the night.

“Thank you so much for coming with us!”  Patton squealed once they were outside.  He launched himself at the hero, squishing him in a hug.  Roman looked down at him, eyes wide, then carefully put his arms around the baker, holding him like something precious and fragile.

“Hug your friend bye, kiddo!”  Patton exclaimed, detaching himself from a stunned Roman.

Virgil made a noise as if to protest, but was immediately dismissed by the Dad Glare.  He slunk over and reluctantly wrapped his arms around his enemy’s waist.  His head fit neatly onto the taller man’s shoulder.  “I’m going to destroy you, Princey.”  He murmured into his ear.

The Prince’s arms encircled him.  “I should’ve just knocked you unconscious in the grocery store, Charlie Frown.”

They stepped back simultaneously, glared at each other, and then The Prince was gone.

Patton smiled.  “He seemed nice.”

He held that smile until much later, until Virge was dropped off (with groceries!) at his apartment, until he firmly closed his own front door behind him, until he dialed a number he knew by heart.  “Lo?”  He said softly, smile running away as he looked at a the picture of The Prince on the front page of the New Psyche Mirror.  “I think I know what Virge has been doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Powerless is a gritty, realistic story about society.  
> Calendar: Hey it's almost valentines day  
> Me: And now it's a fake dating AU!!! <3 <3  
> [for approximately one (1) chapter]
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who had been leaving kudos and comments! It really makes my day each time I get a notification from you.
> 
> (But still roast me if you see a typo, you cowards.)
> 
> In case you didn't catch it, Herbert Spencer is the guy who championed the theory of Social Darwinism, which is very much alive and well in this universe.
> 
> Also, pop quiz! If you had an Ability, what would it be?


	7. Prince Dude goes on a Pony Ride

Roman Garcia’s life was lovely.  It was perfect, really.  He was the world’s most powerful man.  Millions adored him.  He had everything.

He firmly reminded himself of this as he woke up, Missy rolling into his side with a sleepy murmur.  He kissed her forehead gently.  “I’ll see you later, my love.”  

She only snored in reply.

He extracted himself from bed, wrapped himself in a plush red robe, and strode into his spacious living room.  His life was lovely.  After all, he had a gigantic penthouse.  The massive room was decked out in white carpet, a white leather couch, and white walls.  A sleek, modern television took up one entire wall while another was composed of glass panels, looking over his beloved New Psyche.  He crossed the room to his equally enormous kitchen.  It gleamed chrome and silver in the early morning light.  The cleanliness, of course, was likely due to the fact that he had never actually _used_ any of the utensils.

It was like a museum.  You could look and marvel, but it wasn’t yours.  You can’t touch.

He shook away the memory of a cheerful, freckled face and a sneering, gaunt one.   _You look like you’ve never baked before._

He grabbed a red apple from a frosted glass bowl at the end of the counter.  It was the only splash of color in an otherwise monochromatic landscape.  The more he thought about it, the more he really wished Missy had listened more to his input in decorating.  For a few precarious seconds, he allowed his mind to wander, imagining his apartment as something smaller, more homey.  Vibrant colors, stars on the ceiling, shelves and shelves of bookcases - something that felt like him.

Missy stirred in the next room and Roman quickly refocused his attention on breakfast.  He grabbed a carton of raspberry yogurt and popped a slice of bread in the toaster.  After grabbing a seat, he munched on his apple in silence.  The toast popped up with a cheerful _ding!_  He ate it dry, washing it down with a glass of chilled milk and the yogurt.

He returned to the bedroom, quietly dressing in his civilian disguise: a red leather jacket, jeans, and a white t-shirt.  Before he left, however, he glanced back at his girlfriend.  

She was gorgeous.  Her honey-golden hair shone gently in the light of the rising sun.  Her face was serene as she slept on, oblivious to the world around her.  Her slim yet shapely figure was covered by the white bed sheets, and her pale chest rose and fell with her breaths.  His heart melted.  She was so small, so delicate.  At times, he was afraid he would break her.

He padded to her side, the noble Prince to her sleeping beauty.  “Sweet dreams attend thee.”  He gently caressed her rosy cheek.  Her dark eyelashes fluttered open, revealing eyes the color of an endless summer sky.  He smiled at the sight.  “I love you.”

“Sure,”  She agreed sleepily before suddenly realizing what had been said.  “Oh!  I love you too, My Prince.”  She took in his attire.  “Well don’t you look dashing.  Are you going to see Maximus?”

He chuckled a bit too long.  “You know I am.”

She batted her dark eyelashes at him.  “Couldn’t I convince you to stay?”  She shifted and the bedsheets strategically pooled around her.

Roman just dropped a kiss on her forehead.  “I’ll see you later, my love.”

She sighed then turned over to go back to sleep.

He walked out of the penthouse, grabbing another apple on his way.  

The city of New Psyche was shaped like an oval with a small swatch of wildness at the center:  Pons park.  Roman strolled the streets, occasionally ducking into an alleyway to avoid cameras.  It wasn’t that he didn’t love the attention; he just needed some time to himself today.  He needed to think freely.  Pons park was conveniently located far from any press, far from any screaming fans, and far from his penthouse.  Plus, it was where Maximus was stabled.

His steps picked up their pace as he saw the vibrant emerald treeline.  As soon as he stepped into their shadowy embrace, it was like the rest of the world had been shut out behind him.  Here, he was home.

He moved through the forest on memory alone; each inch of this place was as familiar to him as the feeling of a robot henchman being crushed by his bare hands.  Before long, his eyes beheld the rustic wooden stables that stored his dear companion.

“But it was so stupid, right?  I mean so what if ‘viking metal’ is hard to pronounce,”  A person with brightly colored hair was standing at the stable’s entrance, chatting animatedly to a donkey with large, baleful eyes.  “It doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about!”

The donkey brayed.

“Oh, man, yeah, I totally should’ve said that.”

“Talyn!”  Roman raised a hand in greeting as he approached the stable hand.

They startled.  Quickly, they smiled at him, but didn’t quite make eye contact.  “My Prince.”  They greeted him cordially, a stark contrast to the way they had just been casually chatting to the donkey.

“I’d like to take Maximus out for a ride.  If that’s alright.”

“Anything you like.  Do you need me to prepare him?”

Roman waved them off.  “Your offer is appreciated but shall not be required at this moment.  Thank you.”

Talyn nodded respectfully and quickly scampered away.  Roman watched them leave with something akin to sadness.  He thought back to the shelter he had visited last night.  For the first time in a long time, he thought about how differently people treated Roman Garcia than The Prince.  (He thought about a sharp tongue boldly berating him for reasons unknown.  He thought about a handsome, plump baker kindly showing him how to form cookie dough and giving him a hug.)

“Hey, buddy.”  His boots kicked up tufts of sweet-smelling hay as he approached his noble mount.  “I got you a gift.”  Maximus knickered happily at the sight of the apple.  Roman held it under his velvety nose, stroking the long lines of his face as the horse happily gnawed on the treat.  Once he was done, Roman opened the low wooden gate and let himself in.  He prepared Maximus for their ride, gently lying a riding blanket across his broad back and fitting the bit into the horse’s mouth.  “Ready?”  The man asked rhetorically, swinging himself with ease onto the snow white horse.  Like his Disney namesake, Maximus was always ready to run.

They bolted from the stable, startling Talyn badly enough to knock them back into a pile of hay.  “Sorry!”  Roman called over his shoulder with a laugh, but the roaring wind whipped away his words.  Horse and man moved as one as they navigated through the forest, dodging trees and shrubbery alike with practiced ease.  Roman leaned forward, almost across Maximus’s neck, urging him on to their destination.  His equine companion hardly needed urging or steering, however; this path was familiar.  Far too soon and not soon enough, they arrived in a secluded clearing.

Roman dismounted, fondly patting his horse and contentedly taking in his surroundings.  The clearing was a jade dreamscape dominated by a rickety old radio tower.  The juxtaposition of nature and man may have been jarring for some, but Roman found something beautiful in the way the two opposites intertwined.  Vines delicately wrapped themselves around the tower’s base, some climbing as far as halfway up.  In the Spring, they blossomed with the most exquisite magenta flowers.  The tower, too, was rendered magnificent by its courtship with nature.  The harsh metal lines had been softened by time and wear, and its silver gleam was only emphasized by the vivid green backdrop.  Beyond the tower, a small creek carved a cerulean path through the ground.  Roman lead Maximus there to drink.  He didn’t bother tying him up; Maximus was smart enough not to wander off.

Roman settled down with his back against the tower, one hand idly twirling a blade of grass.  Here he could finally think freely.  He allowed him mind to run back over the thoughts he had shoved aside earlier.

His life was lovely, he had so firmly reminded himself.  And that was entirely true.  It didn’t, however, explain this gnawing feeling that had started the moment he discovered why the cashier had searched that kind Patton’s cart and only intensified during his time in that shelter.  Even at this very moment, in the one place in the world he felt even slightly safe, that gnawing was still at work inside his chest, threatening to hollow him out.  Or perhaps bringing his attention to the places that were already hollow.

Roman shook his head.  His most pressing concern, obviously, was what course of action to take to apprehend that new villain he had inadvertently spent so much time with yesterday.  He didn’t have time to worry about every little issue under the sun.  Those people would be benefited by his putting away that emo evil-doer.  The one who had baked cookies for them.  And who apparently volunteered there a lot.  Whose stupid ideals wouldn’t get out of his head.

Roman sighed plantatively.

This was inane.  The only one who should be taking up this much of his mind was Missy.  His girlfriend.  Who he loved.  Not some cadaverous cretin who looked like he belonged at a My Chemical Romance concert.  Missy.  

He could still remember the first time he had seen her.  It had been during his grand battle with the heinous Mistress Malice, a woman who kept trying to upload the entire human race into a virtual reality program so she could… Roman wasn’t quite sure actually.  (Was she the one who was going to make broadswords from humanity’s blood or was that the Scarlet Fever?  All of the supervillain plots ran together after a while.  Well, most did.)  Regardless, he had been knocked back into a skyscraper, which wobbled, but remained intact when he had seen a golden streak falling past him.  He had immediately jumped to the ground and rushed to catch it, and when it turned out to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, well, who else was he supposed to share a dramatic victory kiss with?  His handler at the time had been urging him to get a love interest anyway.

The problem was, despite confessions of love, moving in together, three years of cohabitation, and her being his faithful confidant; he still wasn’t sure how deep their connection was.  Missy was irrefutably beautiful, but she was shallow to say the least.  Their conversations usually consisted of pet names, proclamations of affection, and Missy chattering about the new beauty treatment she was trying, didn’t her skin just glow?  Although Roman was more than happy to talk about what interested her, he was sometimes left feeling like he was the only one putting any effort into their relationship.  Besides, he personally doubted he had ever seen that ‘glowing’ skin without a liberal coating of makeup, but he usually managed to suppress that thought for his own health.

Roman suddenly realized how far his mind had drifted.  He growled.  It was that foul villain, getting into his head.  That’s how they were.  You let them talk to you once and suddenly they permeated your thoughts with their lies and their twisted logic.

Even if this one had actually just shown him the truth.

The hero groaned, flinging his head back dramatically.  If he had been a normal man, he would have received a nasty bump.  As is, he only dented the tower’s metal leg.  

He stared up at the place that had been his safe sanctuary for so long when a memory suddenly hit him with startling clarity.  Before he had been The Prince, before he had really understood his powers, before he had even thought about saving the world on a weekly basis, he had climbed to the top of this tower.  He could still remember the thrill of standing at the top and watching the world beneath him.  He had pictured himself the guardian of all he saw, not knowing that one day he would be.  

Somehow, it had been better in his dreams.

He knew, logically, that he could easily just jump up there.  He didn’t have the Ability of flight, but his super strength and stamina often allowed him to jump impossibly high and far.  He still fondly remembered the look on Doctor Deceit’s face when he had leaped through the Oval Office’s window from the other side of Pennsylvania Avenue and punched the villain out.

See?  He told himself firmly.  His life was perfect.  He captured villains (he studiously ignored the thought that Doctor Deceit had escaped from prison and was still on the lam), he saved the world, and he had a beautiful woman at his side.  Perfect.

He continued to gaze up the 200 foot edifice.  He could easily just jump up there.  He roused himself from his grassy resting place and grabbed one of the lower metal wires.  Seriously, he could barely put in the effort and be up there in five seconds.  He deftly pulled himself up;  Maximus snorted in distress, pounding the ground with his hoof.  “Don’t worry, buddy!”  He called.  “It’s not like I can get hurt.”  When he had climbed this same route as a child, he had been alight with a ferocious joy, adrenaline blazing a trail through his body.  Now, however, he only waited for that same effervescence to encompass him; even as he climbed nearer the summit, however, it never did.

He stood at the very top, looked at the world beneath him, and was more aware than ever before of the gnawing inside his chest.  The wind whipped right through him; he could almost hear it whistling through the hollow cavern.  He looked down at how high he was.  His gaze swept from Maximus, rendered the size of an ant by distance, to New Psyche, sprawled out around him.  

He was surrounded.  The small circle of green that enclosed him was the only thing holding that concrete jungle at bay.  Over there was his penthouse, with Missy waiting for him.  It was nearly midday, she would be leaving for a manicure soon, as she always did on Sundays.  

The rickety old tower creaked under his formidable mass as he stepped closer to her.  He loved her (probably).  She was beautiful (certainly).  And he would always come back to her (doubtlessly) because there was nothing worse than the oppressive silence that was just Roman, stripped down to his very essence.  No Prince, no hero, no lover - just the perpetual gnawing, so deafeningly loud in the quiet.

The ancient metal squeaked in protest as he took another step across the narrow walkway.  Over there was the shelter, with the kind Patton and Thomas.  Plus that villainous fiend, he reminded himself with a scowl.  It didn’t matter what his morals were, what his justification was for destroying his statue and threatening The Prince, he was causing chaos and breaking the law.  It was wrong to hurt and frighten all these people.

He took another step, intent of finding the government facility he had spent so much time in after unveiling his powers to the world, but his boot hit only air.  

Oh.

He was falling.  

He rolled as he hit the ground, a skill honed from being on the receiving end of the dreadful Dragon Witch’s punches.  He was fine, but he stifled a gasp as he turned around.  His impact had left a deep, brown gorge in the middle of his perfect emerald sanctuary.  It stared at him like an accusation as he felt shame well up inside him.  

His actions didn’t affect him, but they ruined everything he touched.

Somewhere far off, church bells rang.

 

Virgil knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his lab.  All of his inventions were placed exactly where he had left them, there was no sign of forced entry, and it didn’t look like anyone had been snooping through his things, but there, sitting on the first table to the right, sat a small flip phone, perched on top of an inconspicuous cardboard box.

Someone had been here while he was gone.

He stared at it warily then jumped as it rang, the sound over-bright and cheerful.

Heart making a mad attempt to beat its way out of his chest, he crept over and picked it up.  “Hello?”  He asked, hands shaking but voice steady.

“Virgil.”  Static hissed down the line.  He relaxed at the sound, letting himself be swept away in a cold embrace.  “I never got the chance to congratulate you the other day.  You were truly wonderful.”

Virgil smiled.  “Thank you.”

“I decided to get you a present as a reward.”  Virgil glanced at the box.  “Go on, open it.”

Virgil tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he grabbed a flat-bladed screwdriver to slice it open.  His eyes widened in delight as he saw what was inside.

“You like it?”  The voice asked, tinged with amusement.  “I thought it would suit you.  After all, every proper villain needs a costume.”

Virgil pulled out the long black overcoat.  It was a suitably sinister affair with a variety of buckles and pockets, a neck high enough to pull over his mouth and nose, and a hood.  Three battered silver stripes encircled the arms.  He couldn’t help but grin.  “I love it.”  He was going to look like Gerard Way.

“Wonderful, but we must press on.”  The voice continued.  The cold hands around Virgil snatched at his clothes, his hair, and his fevered skin until he was numb.  “I need you to build me something.”

“Anything,”  He said, tenderly folding the overcoat and placing it on a table.  He meant it, but still frowned when the voice described what he should do.  Eventually, he spoke.  “I’ll need time and some pretty rare parts.  Including abiletum.”

“Buy what you can and steal the rest.”  Virgil’s partner in crime was silent for a moment, the static on the line popping.  “There’s a crate of abiletum being held in the First Pons Bank.  I trust a heist will be no problem for someone of your skill.”  

Virgil felt faint.  Oh yeah, a heist.  No big deal.  “Of course not.”  

“Excellent.  I’ll keep in touch.”  The line clicked dead.

Virgil stood, motionless for a moment.   _Buy what you can and steal the rest._  He was, after all, a villain.  

He ripped a piece of blueprint paper from a nearby pad and began to sketch out ideas.  This would be the most insane thing he had ever tried to build.  He’d need a titanium frame, some sort of container, a way to concentrate the abiletum blast, and a ton of luck.  

Scientists were still perplexed on how the Abled acquired their powers in the first place.  Most attributed it to a genetic roll of the die.  The only common denominator was the trace amount of abiletum in their blood.  If it was almost impossible to know how Abilities were given in the first place, Virgil wondered desperately how he was going to invent something to take them away.

Somewhere far off, church bells rang.

His mind flashed back to an overheard conversation from what seemed like a lifetime ago.  A small smile crossed his face.  At least he had a few guinea pigs.

He didn’t leave the lab until almost two in the morning, but before he did, he installed a padlock on the door.

He never had liked uninvited guests.

 

Missy Darnelle hadn’t actually been asleep when The Prince arose from bed that morning.  She simply hadn’t wanted to move.  Instead, she listened to him rattle around in the kitchen.  She knew what he would have for breakfast; he was a creature of habit:  an apple, a slice of  toast, a carton of yogurt (raspberry or chocolate), and a glass of milk.

His thoughts were practically screaming in her ear as he sighed.  He was obviously bemoaning the decor again.  Missy had listened to his input on decoration, she really had, but she just didn’t care.  White leather was fashionable nowadays; anything else just would’ve been tacky.

She stirred slightly to move her face out of the light of the early morning sun.  He would come in soon to get dressed to visit Maximus, and she needed to look as aesthetically pleasing as possible.  She arranged the bed sheets just so, parted her rosy lips, and splayed her golden hair around her.

After getting dressed, he turned around to look at her.  She fought a grin, knowing his heart practically melted at the sight of her.  She used her image to her advantage: the perfect queen to his nobility.

After he left, she lazied in bed for a while more.  Honestly, what sort of monster got up before ten?

Eventually, however, she rose from the bed and padded over to the bathroom.  She carefully washed off her overnight makeup, and, after scowling at her bare face, she sashayed to her sleek, modern vanity.  She tapped a button and the lights around the rim lit up, highlighting all the imperfections she needed to cover up by the time The Prince returned.

She did so with skill that came from years and years of practice, chatting on her old-fashioned rotary phone with her old reporter colleagues and friends (she liked to have her finger on the city’s pulse, and everyone wanted to talk to The Prince's girlfriend) as she applied layers of foundation, concealer, bronzer, and finishing powder.  The rotary was the only appliance older than two years in the penthouse, and its audio quality wasn’t fantastic, but she adored the aesthetic.  

Missy Darnelle did most things for the aesthetic.

Somewhere far off, church bells rang.

An hour later, Missy had managed to pick out an outfit, just in time for The Prince to return.

“There you are, my love!”  She chirped, sliding a delicate foot into a dainty high heel.  “I was just about to leave for my mani.”

He smiled at her, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  Ah, he was distracted by that new emo evildoer.  

“Are you alright, darling?”  She slipped into his arms.

He chuckled uncomfortably.  “You’d know if I wasn’t.”

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.  “I’ve got to go, but when I come back, do you want to do something?  We can watch a movie, eat some popcorn, or just chat.”  She pouted.  “Honestly, after how busy you’ve been lately, I feel like you’ve hardly had time for me.”

Missy watched with satisfaction as a smile appeared on her Prince’s face.  “I would love that.”

“Good,”  She grabbed her patent leather purse and made for the door as Roman watched.  “I’ll see you tonight then.”

“Oh, Missy?”  He called, an idea suddenly hitting him.  

“Yes, darling?”  She turned back to him, all soft curves and bouncing hair.

“Do you think you’d be willing to do my makeup?  When you get back?”  He smiled hopefully.  “You know I’ve tried to do my own before, but you’re just so good-”  He cut off at the grimace twisting her lovely mouth.  “What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t think you really should be wearing makeup.”  She said carefully.  “It’s not very masculine.  Imagine what a field day the press would have if they saw you.”

“Oh.”  Roman deflated.

“Honey, don’t give me that look.  It’s just like when I tell you you shouldn’t say something or you shouldn’t talk to those crazy fans of yours.  I’m just trying to look out for you.”  Missy sighed.

“Well, maybe I can take care of myself.”  Roman wasn’t sure where the heat in his voice came from.  “Most powerful man in the world, remember?”

“I could never forget.  It’s not like you constantly boast about it or anything.”

“Well then maybe you should stop trying to control me!”  Roman snapped.

Missy flinched back at his raised tone, and Roman immediately felt shame engulf him.  “Oh, my love, no, I-”  He reached out for her, but she twisted away.

“You scare me sometimes,”  She said softly.  “It scares me to be with you because I know how easily you could hurt me.  You wouldn’t even mean to; you’d just lose your temper and I’d be standing in the wrong spot.”

Something in Roman’s chest cracked open as he took in the sight of her.  She was small and pale and oh-so fragile.  “Missy, no.”  He reached for her again and this time she stepped into his arms.  “I would never hurt you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”  He kissed the top of her head.  “I love you,”  He murmured, not knowing if he had just told the truth, but knowing his next vow was filled with candor.  “And I’ll protect you even if it kills me.”

She smiled into his chest.  “I love you too.”

He didn’t know if she had lied either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Aw, everyone really responded well to the humor and snark of the last chapter!  
> Me:  
> Me: Better give them some vague angst and foreshadowing!
> 
> Thank you so much to all of my lovely commenters, kudos-givers, and subscribers!
> 
> I know it took a while for this chapter to come out. The thing is, I've been grappling with the chapter outline lately and a sub-plot developed on me??? I didn't ask for it. Chapter Eight was seriously messing with me, but I think i've got the ball rolling for that one (and it's going to be long). Blah, blah, blah, no one reads these things anyway; long story short I'm tentatively moving the chapter count to 17 chapters. There might be more. Eek.
> 
> Roast me if you see a typo. Seriously. If I find a typo and no one tells me, I will be forced to... sigh dramatically and fix it.
> 
> I love you all and hope you're having a wonderful day!


	8. Local Vigilante Forced to Witness Unbearable Levels of UST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few mild trigger warnings!  
> Semi-graphic depictions of violence and gun mention (Skip the part with Calamity)

_Buy what you can and steal the rest,_ His partner in crime had told him.  And so he did.

Supposedly secure vaults found themselves mysteriously empty in the morning.  Transportation trucks were waylaid and burgled.  Private collections went missing.

Almost every monument to a Super in the area was defaced or destroyed.

They all knew who was behind the attacks, of course.  Every single site was marked with the same tag: a broken black crown.   _(Virgil smiles the first time he thinks it up.  It’s fitting.  He sprays the wall with dripping black paint, and takes delight in slashing it through the middle.  On a whim, he sprays words under it, as red as accusation:_ The Kingdom will Fall _.  He looks at what he has done and is pleased.)_

The media cycled through various names for him, but thankfully none caught on.  The thought of being referred to as General Anxiety or The Dark King provided almost enough incentive to make him drop out of the whole villainous thing.

The only problem was that he and his nemesis kept meeting.  The Prince had a rather irritating habit of showing up right when he was in the middle of a job.  They were all relatively small, of course.  He had to work his way up to stealing the abiletum.  But still, he only narrowly managed to get away with his supplies the first time, and with each encounter that margin grew thinner.

Even worse than imminent death, however, were the nicknames The Prince kept coming up with.

“ _Dark_ Ruffalo,”  He had said as Virgil was making off with several cases of titanium.  “Did you decide to raid Gerard Way’s closet?”

“Para _-morose_ ,”  He had called him as he dislocated Virgil’s shoulder.  “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

“Brad _Pitiful_ ,”  He had proclaimed as he simply arched an eyebrow at the high energy omega particle laser Virgil had fired at him.  “You do know I have invulnerability, right?”

“Panic at the everywhere,”  He had quipped as he found Virgil vandalizing the capital building.  “I know we don’t all agree on politics, but let’s be civilized here.”

Virgil was, however, pleased to note that what he lacked in creative nicknames, he made up for in never actually being caught by the incompetent hero.

“Princey,”  He had smirked, throwing a small disk which expanded into a steel-mesh net and trapped the hero.  “Looks like silver’s not your color.”

“Your Lameness,”  He had snarked before shoving his shoulder against a wall to pop it back into place.  He had hissed in pain and satisfaction when he dodged the car The Prince threw at him; it sailed past him and smashed through a monument to Dreadnaught, the first ever Super and bigot extraordinaire.  “Seems like you’re doing my job for me.”

“Prince under-arm stink!”  He had cackled as the laser he fired successfully distracted the hero.  “Did you even bother to notice that the enriched uranium is missing?”

“Sir… dummy.”  He had griminced.  “I’m not that great at nicknames.”  He had been thankfully spared any further humiliation by police sirens going off.  “Saved by the bell,”  He had muttered, throwing a smoke bomb and leaving a perplexed hero and capital building defaced with exact accounts of Governor Wyrick's nasty embezzling habit.

Virgil shoved the memory of his and the hero’s previous encounters out of his mind to focus on the job at hand: making a quick get-away with the plasma agar he needed.  Honestly, he probably could’ve grown it himself, but Virgil was most certainly not a biologist.  (In fact, he hated biology.  He’d never quite recovered from the trauma of frog dissection day.)

He crept out of the rooftop access door of Medulla Labs, grateful that small-time supply companies didn’t bother with much security.  He quickly strapped the box of agar to the back of his latest invention.   _It’s like a motorcycle,_ he mused to himself as he flipped several switches; the device came to life with a soft hum, neon purple lighting the dash.   _But silent, much faster,_ He swung a long leg over the patchwork leather seat and felt a thrill as it rose into the air.   _And it can float._

“So,”  A cool, sultry voice, drawling through the air the way molasses flows, derailed Virgil’s train of thought.  “You’re the new kid on the block.”  

Virgil’s head snapped towards the sound, hand clutching the accelerator for reassurance.  There, reclined on the concrete lip of the roof, lazily puffing on a cigarette and taking in Virgil with half-lidded eyes, was a Latina woman dressed like a cowboy.

She breathed out a long rope of smoke and smiled with nicotine-stained teeth.  “Love your wheels.”

Virgil’s fight-or-flight instincts screeched at him as he fought to keep his voice steady.  “Who are you?”  He touched the edge of his half-mask to ensure that it was in place and gazed out warily from inside his hood.

The woman stubbed the cigarette out on the roof’s edge.  “They call me Calamity.”  She snorted.  “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of me.  With The Prince around, media tends to forget we lowly vigilanties.”  Her saccharine southern drawl masked the unspoken threat to her words.  “Not that many big-shot villains to go ‘round.”

Virgil’s pulse immediately skyrocketed, his finger anxiously tapping against the throttle.  “Then what brings you here?  I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

Calamity’s ruby-painted fingers drifted to the gun holsters at her sides.  “Ain’t you heard, pretty boy?  You’re the hot new ticket.”  Hunger gleamed in her eyes.  “Imagine how everyone'll love me when I take down the villain that’s been stumpin’ The Prince.”

If that wasn’t a sign for Virgil to make a break for it, he didn’t know what was.  He opened the throttle, but before he could pull the accelerator, Calamity was suddenly up on her feet and pointing twin pistols at him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Doll.”  She shone with confidence.  “My Ability is that I never miss.”  She cocked the hammer.  “And I’m known to have twitchy fingers.  Get off the bike with your hands up.”

Virgil quickly obeyed, standing between the vigilante and his bike.  His mind should have been racing, but all he could think was that he hadn’t stopped by the bakery that morning.  He would’ve liked to give his friends a hug.

Calamity narrowed her almond-shaped eyes.  “What’s your Ability?  Somethin’ to do with mechanics?”

Virgil ground his teeth together.   He couldn’t catch a break even when he was about to be shot.  “I don’t have one.”

“Don’t lie to me!”  The vigilante snapped, tapping her finger against the trigger meaningfully.  

Virgil cringed.  “I didn’t.”  He forced out, staring at the shadows stretched across the rooftop.  Calamity’s silhouette loomed menacingly over his.  Figured he’d be just as pathetic in almost-death as in life.  

He watched shadow-Virgil stiffen at Calamity’s self-satisfied tone.  “Then I wouldn’t recommend fighting back, darlin’.  You won’t be able to take me.”  

A ghost of a smile flickered across the villain’s face.  “I wouldn’t say that.”

He tapped his thumb and forefinger together, activating a remote switch hidden in his glove; he threw himself to the side to avoid the fireball that spit from the back of his hoverbike.  Calamity swore and dived away, her guns skittering across the gravel rooftop.

“You’re gonna pay for that!”  She snarled, scrambling towards her pistols.  Virgil raced to intercept her, and their hands met on top of the guns.  They grappled with each other, Virgil managing to punch her in the stomach and Calamity scraping the long nails of her free hand down his face.

Calamity screamed as Virgil got the upper hand, wrenching her wrist at an impossible angle, but the vigilante still had an advantage: she was a brawler, and Virgil was not.  She tucked her arm into her side and drove Virgil over her back, snapping his hand off her guns.

Virgil hit the ground arm-first with a sickening thud and lay, winded.

Calamity stepped away from him, gun pointed directly at his forehead.  “Ya couldn’t just stay in your place.”  She panted.  Strands of dark hair escaped her thick braid and plastered themselves to her forehead, sticky with sweat.  Her lipstick was smeared across her face, and her eyes were wild.  “I thought I told you not to fight back.”

Virgil pulled his torso up and gingerly leaned back on his gravel-torn hands.  “I’ve never been good at listening to people who say that.”

“Well,”  She let out a winded laugh.  “That won’t be a problem for you now.”  

Calamity pulled the trigger.  

Virgil cringed back, awaiting the moment of pain.

But nothing happened.

He looked up to see The Prince holding a bullet in his hand.  Hero, villain, and vigilante all stared in fascination for a moment as the bullet seemed to strain against the hero’s hold, vibrating in his grip.  

“Oh my Atlanta.”  Calamity gasped.  “It’s you.”

“I’d return the compliments to a fair lady, but you hardly seem the type.”  The Prince said cooly.  “Besides, I wouldn’t know who to address.”

“Calamity.”  Virgil gritted out, dragging himself to his feet.  “But I think Cow-belle fits better.”

The Prince snorted unbecomingly before he could stop himself.  He glared at Virgil over his shoulder.  “Curse you for making me laugh.”

The vigilante looked between the hero and villain in confusion.  “I thought you two hated each other.”

“We do.”  They said simultaneously.

Calamity shook her head.  “I hate to dismiss ya, your majesty, but we were in the middle of something here.”  She raised her gun again.  “This ain’t your fight.”

The three of them stood in the night’s murky darkness, eyes darting from enemy to enemy.  The Prince clutched the still vibrating bullet; Calamity clutched the handle of her pistol; Virgil clutched his injured arm and wondered if he had dislocated his shoulder again.  (He probably had a concussion.)

“That’s where you’re wrong.”  The Prince stepped forward threateningly.  “This villain and I have bad blood between us.  No one is going to be taking him in except for me.  He’s attacked me, so I’m going to be the one to bring him in.  I’m going to be the one to destroy his reign of terror.  I, and no one else, am going to defeat him.  Do you understand me, you miscreant?  Hands off.”  He leaned forward, looming over her.  “He’s _mine_.”

Virgil fought off a (frightened! Definitely frightened) shiver at the hero’s growl.

Calamity scrambled for the upper hand.  “I never miss.  If you let go of that bullet, it’ll hit him.”

The Prince stalled, hanging uncertainty.  Virgil took that as his cue.

He limped forward until he was standing beside The Prince and nudged his hand.  “Don’t let go, but let me see it.”

Roman looked at him in bewilderment, but did so, uncurling his fist and holding the bullet firmly between two fingers.  It strained towards the villain against the hero’s grip;  Virgil saw that The Prince’s clutches had put a dent on either side of the metal shot.

“What are you doing?”  Calamity demanded, hackles back up.  Her eyes darted back and forth between hero and villain.  “It’ll kill him if you let go!”

Virgil reached out and laid his hand over Roman’s, feeling the heated metal of the bullet settle between the two of them.  “There, it hit me.  Just not fast enough to hurt.”  

The Prince’s gaze filled with something like awe.

“You- YOU-”  Calamity, blind with rage, rushed forward.  The Prince unarmed and knocked her out before Virgil could even register he had moved.

Impressively, their hands were still clasped together.

The hero looked at the vigilante’s unconscious body.  “That was probably the most moronic thing I could have done.”

The villain’s voice went oddly soft.  “Don’t sell yourself short.”  He squeezed their conjoined hands. “You act like a moron every day.”

The Prince glared at him, hatred clouding his brown eyes.  “I just attacked a fellow hero for you.  Don’t push me, hot topic.”

“Aw, you think I’m hot.”  Yeah, Virgil definitely had a concussion.  “Besides, she was a vigilante.”  He nudged the unconscious woman with the tip of his scuffed combat boot.  “Seemed to have a grudge against you.”

Roman shrugged overdramatically.  “Haters gonna hate.”

Virgil blinked then decided to let that comment slide for his own mental health.

“What was that spiel about me being yours?  You do know we’re not actually dating, right?”  Virgil pulled his hand away from the hero’s and slunk back towards his bike.

The hero growled.  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”  He turned to face the villain fully.  

Virgil noticed a dark smudge under the hero’s white shirt, like something had been etched there.

“I’m going to catch you.  I’m going to put you in jail and see you prosecuted to the full extent of the law.  I’m going to destroy you with my own hands and not someone else’s bullet.”  The Prince relaxed his hand, and the shot clattered to the rooftop.  “I will and no one else will.  You’re my bounty, and I won’t rest until _I’m_ the one to put you behind bars.”

The villain smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.  “You’ve got to catch me first.”

The hero frowned.  “What?”

But Virgil had already swung a leg over his hoverbike and was pulling on the throttle.  “You can’t do any of that as of yet, Princey.  You’ve got to catch me first.”  He let out a wicked smile and the throttle, shooting across the rooftops and trailing a purple neon blaze through the darkness.

Roman felt a thrill rise in his chest, filling a hollow place.  “Don’t worry,”  He murmured, a grin stretching across his lips.  “I will.”

  


The media loved that new villain, of course.  Someone who deliberately attacked the Ableds’ privilege?  Everyone hated him.  It was like Christmas come early every time they got to run another piece on how he was trying to undermine democracy.  

Kaimi Alvi knew full and well that what she was reporting was technically true.  This guy really was attacking the Abled.  She also knew, however, that the people who fed her her script were putting a dark twist on it.

“People all around the city are concerned about this terrifying new villain,”  She chirped obediently.  She was sitting at her desk, reporting on the day’s headlines and running an opinion piece on that new villain (she was trying out the name Purple Punisher, but she didn’t think it’d stick).  Not her opinion, of course, but an opinion nonetheless.  Yet another technical truth.

Don’t get her wrong, Kaimi loved nothing more than being a reporter.  She had always been a curious child, constantly bombarding anyone who would listen with questions.  When she had gone to college, however, and signed up for Journalism 101 with Professor Julia Abbott on a whim, she hadn’t the faintest notion it would change her life.

“New Psyche has been bombarded with vicious attack after vicious attack from the… Kingdom Crusher.”  She internally griminced.  That one wouldn’t stick either.  “I, personally, have seen the kind of damage he has wrecked on our beautiful city and cannot wait until he is behind bars.”

(The conversation where she told her parents she was going to be a reporter and not a doctor was twice as awkward as the one where she had told them she was trans, but not quite as awkward as the time in eighth grade she had called them because she had been kissing a cute girl and their braces got stuck together.)

“But if you really want to know the truth…”  She leaned forward, watching all the people hanging on her every word as the teleprompter rolled on. The rumors were true: she really was Able to see everyone who saw her, no matter how far away.  She looked at all of the people she observed everyday:  Dana Cardinal, who always forgot to drink the glass of milk she poured herself in the morning;  Carlos Palmer, who was married to the local radio announcer;  Tamika Flynn, who had an ever-growing stack of books next to her bed.  She idly wondered what would happen if she just screamed the Truth instead of obediently parroting her script.  “You see, the truth is…”

The Truth, Professor Abbott had preached, was the only thing that kept society running smoothly.  Many other professors had aggressively disagreed with her rhetoric, instead teaching their students the shadowy, sly side of journalism, the side that fed the masses a pretty story and hyped them up on fluff pieces until they couldn’t tell left from right anymore.  Of course, not many people had trusted the one Unabled professor anyway.

“That in this time of trials, now more than ever, we must stick together and stick to tradition!”  She loved New Psyche with every fiber of her being, but she didn’t trust it.  She knew what would happen if she went off-script: she would be fired, sued, and blacklisted from every single job she could ever apply for.  She’d end up in one of the homeless shelters she always reported budget cuts for.

“We must not let this new villain strike fear into our hearts!  This is the way things are, and this is the way they should be!”  She stretched her lips into a smile, blindingly bright and trustworthy.  

“In other news, that new gang, the Howling Scorpions, have been stirring up trouble on the lower east side again.”  Kaimi detached herself from the chipper girl wearing a lilac hijab and a fake smile sitting at her desk.  She felt the other girl’s lips move as she reported on whatever the Pouncing Puppies (or whatever they were called) were doing.  She couldn’t be that girl.  That girl was a coward.  Her lips were moving and her eyes were shining and she was speaking, but she wasn’t telling The Truth.  A truth, yes, but not The Truth.

“Good night, New Psyche, I’ll see you soon!”

The lights went off, a bell rang, and someone clapped to signal the end of the work day.  Kaimi slid out of her seat.  She’d be back here in less than six hours; better get some rest while she could.

“Great job, Kaimi!”  Someone clapped her shoulder, and she barely caught a glimpse of blue eyes before they whisked themself away.  

“Thanks.”  She muttered rhetorically.  She trudged into her dressing room, shutting the door behind herself with a grateful sigh.  She picked up a package of makeup wipes and set about cleaning her face before she looked at herself in the mirror and almost wished she hadn’t.

Kaimi hadn’t been sleeping well lately; stress, logic, and morals were wreaking havoc on any semblance of a circadian rhythm she possessed.   Prominent shadows under her eyes, small wrinkles from frowning, a perpetual look of discontent - she was a mess.

The reporter shook her head and grabbed her purse.  It was time to go home.

“Kaimi!  Hold up,”  A foot stuck in the closing gap of the elevator she had just entered; the door slid back open to reveal her assistant.

“Joan!”  She said with a tired half-smile.  “What’d I forget?”

Joan held up a packet of paperclipped documents.  “Your analysis of the graffiti on the capitol building.”

She took it with a weary murmur of thanks.  They slid into the elevator next to her, hitting the button for the ground floor.

“You know management’ll never run it,”  They sighed.  “I don’t know why you keep obsessing over this.”

Kaimi frowned.  “Because Governor Wyrick has been embezzling cash from almost all of the relief funds?  Because literally all of the data checks out? Because it’s true?”

Joan rolled their eyes.  “I know that.  It’s just… every else's focus is on morale, rallying the troops against the next big bad.  I know that we run bits on crooked politicians all the time, but…”  They petered off, looking for the right way to say it.  “This is a federally funded program.  You’re the best reporter we’ve got, Kaimi.  People trust you.  That’s a big responsibility.  I don’t… I don’t want you do cross a line you’ll regret.”

Kaimi smiled thinly.  She already had.  “Send those papers to management, will you?”

Joan sighed and waved a hand over the papers; they vanished, and Kaimi knew they were sitting in the inbox upstairs.  An awkward pause hung heavy in the air as they both watched the numbers scroll down to the ground floor.  

Joan broke first.  “I’m just like an email account for you, aren’t I?”  Amusement played on the corners of their mouth, revealing dimples, and Kaimi knew she was forgiven.

“What, no!”  She protested as the elevator came to a stop.  “My email is much less sassy than you are.”

They walked through the lobby as Joan asked her if she was going to get any sleep that night.  “It won’t do well for ratings if you pass out in the middle of a broadcast.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Joan laughed as they stepped out into the concrete streets of New Psyche.  “Need a ride?”  They asked as they buckled a red helmet onto their head, gesturing at their moped.

Kaimi snorted.  “On that rice burner?  No thanks - I choose life.”

They motored off and Kaimi began the short walk to her apartment.  New Psyche was just as busy at night as during the day, and she was bombarded with various images of all the people who glanced at her as their paths crossed.

Violet hair and rocky skin and yellow eyes and dark skin and androgynous features and bowties and detectives and bakers and punks and children and nonagenarians and -  Kaimi carefully shut her mind off, drifting back in her memories as she climbed the stairs to her opulent penthouse.  Professor Abbott had been an amazing woman.  She would be ashamed to see what Kaimi had come to.

Good thing she was dead then.

Her mind replayed the funeral as the unlocked the door to her apartment and toed off her shoes in the doorway.  It had been a small affair on a sacrilegiously beautiful day.  Kaimi, Professor Abbott’s son, and her few friends watched as her plain black casket was lowered into the ground.  It had been ruled a suicide, but they all knew that it wasn’t The Truth.

Suicidal people could be harassed and threatened for months by hate groups, true.

Suicidal people weren’t, however, found dead in the middle of a mysterious house fire.

The reporter flopped face-first onto her bed, intent on only resting her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, daylight was streaming in through her windows.

A paper fluttered somewhere near her head, and she reached out to grab it without looking, accustomed to Joan’s prefered method of communication.  (They often joked about how they didn’t have to pay for unlimited texting.)

 _Great news!_  Her bleary eyes took in Joan’s familiar, messy scrawl.   _I got a memo from management; they’re going to run your story!_  Kaimi was suddenly wide awake and grinning.   _They edited it a bit (I haven’t seen the revisions yet, but…_  Kaimi stopped reading, beyond the point of caring.  They were going to run her story on Governor Wyrick.  She was going to put The Truth out there.

She fluttered through her morning routine, eating, dressing, and praying with a smile on her face.  

She breezed into the studio, had her makeup artist scold her for not keeping her face neutral, and lightly sat down in her seat.

The lights turned on, a bell rang, the teleprompter started to roll, and the camera focused on her.

“Good morning, New Psyche!”  She chirped, smile soft and genuine.  She watched as New Psyche went through its morning routine.  Business people shoveled bagels into their mouths on their way out the door; students lethargically slurped up soggy cereal; spouses greeted each other with a morning kiss over breakfast; the owner of her favorite bakery was trying (and failing) to flirt with Logan again; the sad man with a gaunt face was wrapping ace bandages around an arm marred with purple and yellow bruises.   “It’s another beautiful day.”

 

“And on this lovely day, we here at channel 42 are pleased to…”  Logan tuned out Kaimi Alvi’s typical morning spiel as he sipped on his coffee.  He always ordered it black, but Patton knew that he liked it with two sugars and a cream.  The baker would pretend to sneak the additions in and Logan would pretend he didn’t notice.

“Patton.”  He put his coffee mug down with a clink.  “I’m afraid we cannot confirm your theory.”

The baker threw his hands up in the air, drawing the attention of several patrons.  “I knew who I saw!  Virgil is dating The Prince!”  He cried, heedless of Logan’s attempts to get him to soften his voice.

“Virgil hates The Prince.”  Logan countered, trying to logically sort through the conundrum.  “In addition, it is well known The Prince is in a long-term, presumably monogamous relationship with Missy Darnelle.”

“I know who I spent all day with!”

“Patton, I’m not saying that you are incorrect.  I’m simply stating that without further evidence, we cannot accurately make any assumptions.  We must investigate.”  A gleeful smile passed over the astronomer’s face.  “The game is on.”

Patton’s eyes sparkled.  “Is this like when we went to comicon in co-play?”

“Cosplay.”

“Bless you.”

Logan took a final sip of his coffee - two sugars and one cream - and delicately dabbed at the curled corners of his mouth with his handkerchief.  “What this is, my dear Watson, is an investigation.”  He glanced at his watch and grimaced.  “One that will have to pick up at a later time.  I’ve got to open the planetarium.”

As he lifted himself from his seat, however, he saw something on the TV that gave him pause.  “Patton,”  He said lowly.  “Does Ms. Alvi appear amiss to you?”

Patton looked at the TV and was visibly taken aback.

The reporter was speaking about the act of vandalism the new villain had committed on the capitol building (an act Logan privately approved of); nothing too odd, just the typical spiel about how sad it was that anyone would attack our public officials and that the entire thing was a sick joke.  “None of the data presented on the building checks out,”  She was saying.  “Only further discrediting the… Night Knight.”

Logan, Patton, and several of the bakery’s customers shook their heads.  That one wouldn’t stick either.

The oddity was the expression creeping over Ms. Alvi’s usually demure face.  Her eyebrows were furrowed, drawing lines in her shining forehead.  Her fingers were flexing instead of folding neatly on her oak desk.  Her eyes flashed with rage.

“That’s all we have for today, New Psyche.  All of it.  Nothing else.”  She spat at the camera.  Her jaw worked under her smooth brown skin as she ground her teeth together.  “It’s a brand-new day.”  She ripped her microphone off of her shirt and threw it down on the table.  Everyone in the bakery winced at the feedback.  She looked somewhere off camera, grinned vitriolically, and spoke.  Her voice was muffled and tinny, but everyone across the city could hear her.  “I quit.”

The monitor immediately flashed to the hepta-colored **Technical Difficulties: Please Stand By** screen.  

“Huh.”  Patton said.

Logan agreed.  “Quite.”

 

A state of dysphoria trailed after Logan all day.  Even as he closed the door to his apartment behind him and settled into his favorite armchair with a book of Shel Silverstein poetry, he still felt a creeping sense of dread.  He shook his head - feelings weren’t facts - and refocused on the tale of _Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too._  It was a bit whimsical, perhaps, but he felt a note of levity was needed.  It would distract him from his untraceable mounting dread and eternal struggle of whether or not to move.

Logan’s apartment bill was outrageous.  Most rent in New Psyche was, of course, outrageous, but Logan’s struck him as an outlier.  Likely because the apartment was designed to house more than one.  He knew that, logically speaking, he should simply move out and chose a place of residence more suited to his budget.  Not that he couldn’t afford it, it was just a tad extravagant.  Every time he attempted to do so, however, he was struck by one of his more… fanciful moods.  Despite himself, he could never shake the feeling that one day he would confess to Patton and persuade him (and Virgil) to move in.  Logan knew, of course, that this was absolutely ludicrous and that he should stop being so selfish, for Patton’s sake, but the feeling never quite went away.

It was as Logan was sitting comfortably in his oversized apartment that a soft, timid knocking came from his door.

He opened the door to reveal Kaimi Alvi.  

“Ms. Alvi.”  He greeted her with no small amount of surprise.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

An anxious smile played across her lovely face.  “Hey, Logan.  I’m sorry to come over uninvited.”

“Nonsense,”  Logan opened the door wider and waved her inside.  “You know you’re always welcome.  Would you care for some coffee or tea?”

“Tea, if you don’t mind.”  She hovered in the entryway uncertainty.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”  He quipped, putting a kettle on to boil.  She laughed and, suddenly, she was so similar to the young woman in his memories.

“Is mint still your favorite?”  He asked, taking down two mugs.

“You should know; you’re the one who made me try it in the first place.”

Logan smiled wryly at the memory as he poured the water into two mugs.  “I was only saving you from your own terrible taste.”

They settled in his living room, both clutching their mugs.  “Thank you.”  She blowed on her tea to cool it as she looked around.  “Your apartment is lovely.”

Logan narrowed his eyes.  “You hate small talk.  It’s one of the reasons we used to get along so well.”

Kaimi stalled, sipping on her beverage.  “We still do.”

“How would you know?”  He snapped, suddenly irked.  “We haven’t seen each other in eight years.”

“Communication is a two-way street.  I seem to recall _neither_ of us made an effort to reach out after-”  After a sacrilegiously beautiful day.

“What do you need, Kaimi?”  He asked, all the heat gone from his voice.

“You saw my… meltdown on air earlier.”

“I and the rest of New Psyche.  May I ask what prompted it?”

“The Truth.”  She said softly.  Logan stilled at the echo of another woman in her voice.  “Channel 42 hasn’t been allowing me to tell the Truth for a long time now.  So I quit.”  She shook her head.  “I probably screwed up my entire professional career and wrecked any chance I’ll ever have for a stable life again, but I quit.”  She blanched as a sudden thought hit her.  “I’m probably going to have to move.  No way I’ll be able to afford my apartment now.”

Logan wanted to reach out a hand to comfort her, but he stayed still.  He wasn’t quite sure how to pick up after eight years of radio silence.

“Sorry, I’m rambling.”  She tapped her toe in the air.  “I’ve got an idea.  A crazy, desperate, insane idea.  I think you could help me with it.”

“I’m all ears.”

“If there’s one thing… if there’s one thing Professor Abbott taught us both it’s that The Truth is the most important resource that we have.  I know you’re not a journalist, but as a scientist, you have to agree that telling the Truth is vital in all fields of study.  I believe that there are forces at work to conceal the Truth from our public.  I’m going to change that.”

“How?”

Kaimi took a deep breath.  “With a newspaper.”

“A… newspaper?”  Logan frowned.  “Isn’t that a bit… outdated?”

Kaimi smiled wryly.  “No one’s managed to hack or track a piece of paper yet.”

Logan conceded the point.  “I am a fan of analogue.”

“It’s the most readily available media source to the public.  It can be delivered in secret to every citizen, and it’s probably the only thing I’ll be able to afford in the near future.  Think of it as those pamphlets you read.  The Rights of Man?  Principles of Political Morality?  I know you don’t want to pass up on the opportunity to be the next Robespierre.”

“Robespierre was guillotined without trial.”

Kaimi winced.  “Okay, bad example.”

“No, a perfect example.”  Logan rose from his chair and stalked into the kitchen.  “You’re playing a dangerous game.”  He methodically washed his mug, soothing himself with the smooth slide of the dish towel over porcelain.

“I know.”  Kaimi had followed him.  She stood in the doorway, twisting her fingers together.  “This is dumb and I’ve lost my mind and I’ve come to you because of a connection eight years dead since I’ve got no one else to turn to.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’m asking you because I know you care about the Truth.  Professor Abbott-”

“Mom,”  Logan interrupted her quietly.  “She always was asking you to call her mom.  You were her favorite student.”

“But she was _your_ mother.”

Logan put the clean mug on his drying rack and turned to fully examine Kaimi for the first time since she knocked on his door.  She was older than he remembered, more tired as well.  Then again, he supposed he looked much the same.  Shadows lurked under her eyes, reminding him of the mystery that was Virgil Sanders.  Everything about her screamed the story of a woman on edge.  A woman who was just crazy enough to make a difference.

The last woman he had known with that look in her eyes was killed by a hate group.

“Let me think about it.”  He stated finally.  “And I will give you a definitive answer within a day.”

She smiled despite herself.  “Punctilious as always.”

He found himself smiling back.  “Would you expect anything else?”

 

In the end, he did what he always did during times of infinitesimal decision-making.  He talked to Patton.

“Do you trust her?”  Patton asked.  They were standing in the baker’s home, and he seemed to be clutching some sort of mechanical oryctolagus cuniculus for comfort.

Logan thought back to the shadows under Kaimi’s eyes, the way she had confided secrets in him.  “I do.  I think I’m going to help her.”  Now was the time to confess his ulterior motive.  “We don’t know what Virgil is up to for sure and this could provide an opportun-”

“No.”  Patton cut him off, an edge to his voice Logan had never heard before.  “No you won’t help her.”  He stalked over to the window, gently setting the clockwork rabbit down along the way, and stared at the world outside.

“Patton?”  Logan looked at the baker.

“Do you know how long I was in foster care?”  Patton, still gazing out, asked abruptly.  He didn’t bother to wait for Logan’s response.  “Since I was almost six.  Four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days.”

“Patton, I fail to see how-”

“Four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days of being bounced around from place to place.  Every _single_ time I moved I was hopeful.  Up until they day I turned eighteen.  Every single time I thought to myself, ‘Maybe this one will be it.  Maybe, just maybe, this one would want me.   _Maybe_ I’ll finally have a family.’  And after four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days of having my heart broken, after four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days of knowing no one would ever want a stupid Powerless for a kid, after all that, they kicked me out the minute I turned eighteen.”  He turned and looked at Logan through water-rimmed blue eyes.  “And then I met you.  And I met Virgil.

“Finally, I realized that those four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days were worth it.  Because _now_ I had my family.  I promised myself that I’d keep it no matter what.  I promised myself that I’d be there for the two of you.  For my _family_.”  Patton’s voice broke as the tears finally spilled over.  “Because I love you.”

Despite the circumstances, Logan’s traitorous heart leapt.

“And I love Virgil.  More dearly than you will ever know.”  Patton knew he was in love with the man standing in front of him; he knew he loved Virgil just as deeply.  “I’m not saying this so you feel sorry for me, Lo.  I’m saying it so you know what you’re doing.  Please, _please_ , I am begging you not to do this.  You can’t take on the world like this.  It’s too risky.  I waited four thousand three hundred and sixty seven days for what I have now.  I just…”  Patton swallowed, trying to force the words out around the lump in his throat.  “I don’t want to lose my family.”

Logan never had been incredible with emotions, but he felt like he knew what to do next.  Crossing the room with two strides of his long legs, he pulled Patton into a hug.   “You’re shaking.”  He murmured into the baker’s soft blond hair.

“So are you.”  

They stood there, embracing in the sunlight shining across Patton’s living room, silence only broken by Patton’s sniffles and Logan’s responding 'Hey, It’s okay’s and 'Don’t worry, I’m here’s.  

Logan looked at the wonderful, impossible, amazing person in his arms and felt like something inside him would burst if he didn’t say it.  “Patton?”  He waited until he was looking at him.  “I love you, too.”  He knew Patton wouldn’t take it the way Logan wished for him to, but it was satisfying to voice nonetheless.

Patton, despite everything, smiled.  “So you won’t do it, then?  You’re going to stay safe?”  Hope colored his voice.

Logan dropped a kiss on Patton’s forehead.  “I’ll be safe, I promise.”

Patton sighed with relief, not noticing that the man he loved hadn’t answered his question.

Later that night, Logan pulled out his phone and stared at it.  He took a deep breath and tried to think through this logically.  Patton’s appeal was largely based on pathos, an emotional appeal, and, when used in excess, a logical fallacy.  He was, however, entirely correct in stating Logan’s prospective task would be dangerous.

Logan found himself dialing the number any way.  

Patton said that he wanted to protect his family;  He didn’t understand that Logan did as well.

“Kaimi?”  He said, pressing the phone into his ear.  “This is Logan Abbott.  I’d like to inform you that I’m willing to help.”  He cast a glance around his large apartment, perfect for two.  “I believe I’ve also found you a place of residence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe they just left Calamity on that roof. Honestly, guys.
> 
> *stares at Logan sub-plot* where did you come from. i didn't ask for you
> 
> I'm aware that this chapter largely focuses on an OC and I promise that she won't be very prominent in future chapters if she is disliked, but once again, we needed an outside perspective from an Ordinary Citizen - just to prove that they aren't all vacuous - and I needed a way to drag Logan into the shadowy world of media.
> 
> I love!!! Everyone!!! Who comments!!! and subscribes!!! and bookmarks!!! and leaves kudos!!! and who is reading this!!!
> 
> roast me if you see a typo
> 
> Also, the chapter count increased when I wasn't looking again.


	9. Local Idiots Need to Work on Communication Skills

Virgil was honestly concerned about how remarkably easy it was to break into a bank.  He was no hacker; he couldn’t remotely disable the security of First Pons Bank, but it worked just as well to send an EMP blast to knock out the cameras.  He paralyzed the guards with the same device he had used on his audience at his villainous debuit. As he sauntered past their paralyzed forms, leaving the device on the ground next to them, he marveled at how people actually trusted their money to these guys.

After that, it was only a matter of opening the vault itself.  Virgil moved the deadbolt to its upright position then removed the front panel and set it gently to the side.  Taking in the intimidatingly complex gears and levers that made up the vault’s lock, he pulled out a long, cylindrical device with a myriad of rods jutting off of the end.  He carefully inserted the device’s legs into the intertwining mechanics and began to fiddle with it.

He was so engrossed in his task that he didn’t even notice the silent alarm going off.

He did, however, notice when The Prince punched through the wall to his right.  The hero stepped forward, ready to act as the right hand of democracy and the protector of innocent civilians everywhere.  “CEASE AND DESIST, FOUL CRIMINAL!” He cried dramatically, posing in the newly formed hole with his hands on his hips and chest puffed out proudly.  “TODAY IS THE DAY YOUR REIGN OF TERROR ENDS FOREVER!”

(Honestly, that was just extravagant, not to mention irresponsible.  Even if he wasn’t robbing the bank now, _someone_ would eventually with the gaping human-sized hole in the wall.  Not for the first time, he wondered who paid for all the property damage The Prince caused.)  

Virgil opted to ignore him, focusing on the jumble of gears.

The Prince, used to having criminals scramble away in fear as soon as they spotted him, blinked in surprise.  He continued to pose as Virgil’s attention remained raptly on the vault.

The hero cleared his throat and struck another, equally dramatic pose, ready for the villain to turn around and be struck with terror.

Virgil tugged his half-mask down, put a few metal pins in his mouth for convenience, and kept working.

Roman cleared his throat again.  This time, he flexed his muscles, ready for the villain to swoon.  Swoon in fright, that was.

Virgil finally got one of the levers to lift.  Five more to go.

Roman, ever persistent, cleared his throat again.  He blew a kiss, hoping to get a reaction.

Nothing.  The Prince frowned.  That one always worked.

Maybe the villain was deaf and had forgotten his hearing-aids at home.  Roman’s sign language was a little rusty, and he wasn’t sure if the nuances of his nicknames would come through, but he was willing to give it a shot.  “Are you deaf? I’m asking sincerely.”

“How would I be able to respond to that if I was?”

“Aha!  You’ve fallen for my clever ploy!  Now, face me, foul creature, and face justice!”

Virgil now had three levers lifted and was working on the fourth.  “No.”

Roman deflated.  “What are you doing?”

Virgil almost had the last lever in place.  “It’s called a heist, captain obvious.” He deadpanned around a mouthful of metal pins.

“I’m not Captain Obvious.”  The hero muttered sullenly, stepping down from his stage in the wall.  “I’m The Prince. Captain Obvious is the one with the stupid pirate hat.  I’m the hot, popular one.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”  The villain rose and the hero perked up, ready to engage in a grand, glorious battle.  Virgil, however, just swung the vault door open.

“Voilá.”  The villain muttered.  There sat several cases full of abiletum.  “I’m about to steal this, Princey, so I’d appreciate it if you could kindly bug someone else for a change.”

The Prince scoffed, stepping forward to deliver another loquacious speech on how Virgil was a menace to society and a danger to others and how stealing was illegal - Virgil stopped paying attention at that point.  He was far more interested in making sure The Prince didn’t notice the gangly, spider-like drone crawling along the ceiling.

“Which is why, ever since I was a child, I’ve had a deep sense of justice ingrained within me.  A sense of justice that allows-” The Prince’s shoulders suddenly tensed. His eyes snapped to the ceiling just in time to see the drone drop down, its impossibly long, spidery limbs wrapping themselves around him.

He shrieked - a surprisingly high-pitched sound - and struggled against its grip.  He managed to wrench a limb free only to have it ensnared again.

Virgil mockingly clucked his tongue.   “No point in trying to escape, Princey.  It’ll grab you again as soon as you get out.  Plus, that baby’s solid titanium.”

The Prince stilled for a moment, letting the drone’s legs convulse around him.  

Virgil smiled.

Then the hero grabbed one of the robot’s legs and ripped it off of the small oval body.

Virgil stopped smiling.  He rushed into the vault.  He’d just have to make a speedier exit than previously anticipated.  No way the hero could destroy all twelve of the legs in the next few seconds.

Virgil grabbed two cases and spun around to the vault’s entrance only to come face-to-face with one extremely peeved hero, a writhing drone still wrapped around his torso.

Virgil flashed a hesitant smile.  “Hey... buddy.”

The Prince snarled and grabbed the drone by its epicenter, throwing it behind him.

The villain’s eyes widened in panic as he mapped out its trajectory.  “Wait, no!” He shouted, but it was already too late. The drone knocked directly against oversized hinges;  the vault door swung closed, trapping the hero and villain inside.

They both stared, momentarily paralyzed by their shock.

“Maybe it’s not locked?”  Roman suggested hopefully.

The grating sound of the deadbolt falling into place reverberated into the enclosure.

The Prince began eloquently swearing in Spanish.

“Big mood,”  Virgil, still not quite believing his misfortune, muttered.

They were trapped inside of a solid titanium box, barely ten feet by ten feet, with a stiflingly small amount of headspace.  If Virgil stood on his tiptoes and stretched, he’d easily be able to touch the harsh fluorescent lights. The space was cut down even further by the boxes stacked in rows with only narrow pathways to squeeze through.  The most room available was the tiny gap between the boxes and the door the hero and villain now stood in.

“Don’t just stand there!”  The Prince snapped. “This is your fault, Count Dracu-lame!  Fix it!”

Virgil’s blood boiled.  “My fault? Of the two of us, who hit the hinges?”

“You dare accuse _me_?”  The Prince cried.  “Your... golem was attacking me!”

“First of all, it’s a drone.  Second, I wouldn’t have needed the drone if you would just leave me alone!”

“Well maybe I could leave you alone if you would stop robbing banks!”

Virgil sulked.  “This is the first bank I’ve robbed, technically speaking.”

The Prince elected not to dignify that with a response.

They resumed staring at the door in silence.

“Could you just…”  Virgil waved a hand vaguely.  “Punch through it?”

The Prince knitted his brow in contemplation.  “Worth a shot.” He rolled his shoulders and strutted over to the reinforced titanium door.  “Watch and be amazed.” He crowed with a wink.

He pulled back his arm and slammed into the door.  An ear-splitting cacophony rang through the enclosure.  Virgil clapped his hands over the sides of his head and winced in pain.  The Prince pulled back his fist to reveal a shallow dent in the shape of his knuckles.

“Amazing.”  Virgil deadpanned, uncurling himself.  “At that rate, it’ll only take three days and permanent hearing loss to escape.”

The Prince shot him a glare.  “I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas.”

Virgil shrugged nonchalantly.  “I accept the fact that we’re trapped here and will eventually have to resort to autocannibalism to sustain ourselves.”

It took The Prince an embarrassingly long time to realize he was being facetious.  “Why are you like this?”

Virgil closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold titanium wall.  “Constant degradation by society.”

“Just-”  The Prince threw up his hands in frustration.  “Help me out here!”

“While under normal circumstances, that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do, I am.”

“I see you’re quite an active participant.”

One of the villain’s eyes cracked slightly open.  “I’m thinking. Don’t rush me.” His eye shuttered closed again.

The Prince managed to sit quietly for a grand total of thirty seconds.  “We could try to take off the hinges.”

“They’re welded to the outside of the vault.”

Silence settled over them for an entire minute this time.  “We could dig through the floor!”

“It’s also solid titanium.”

Three minutes.  “We could try to find something useful in these crates?”

“All that’s in here is abiletum, and unless you think that throwing the world’s most valuable element at a door to see what happens is a good idea, that won’t work.”

Six minutes.  “I could try punching it again.”

“Please do, I could use a laugh.”

Five minutes this time.  They were regressing. “Did you think of anything yet?”

“Yes, actually.  I’m rethinking feeding you to sharks; I’d much rather throw you into an active volcano.”

“Like your noodly arms could lift me.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention your weight, but since you brought it up…”

“Shut up, All Time _Lowly.”_

“...You shut up.”

Four minutes later, Virgil sneezed.  The Prince remained silent. Virgil cut a glare at him.  The Prince didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you going to say bless you?”  Manners, honestly.

“Oh, so _now_ you want me to talk.  When it’s _convenient_ to you.”  The Prince arched an eyebrow.  “Besides, I’m standing right here.  You’ve clearly already been blessed.”

Virgil took several deep breaths and reminded himself he’d break every bone in his hand if he punched the hero.

Eleven minutes of glaring daggers at each other later, The Prince broke the silence again.

(He was clearly the weaker-willed of the two.)

“Maybe we could… yell really loudly and someone will hear us.”

“Are you always this stupid or are you just showing off for me?”  Virgil snapped.

The Prince worked his jaw.  “You know, twenty-one _cry-_ lots, I’m going to put you in jail one day.  It’d serve you well to show me some respect.”

Virgil felt molten-hot rage seep into his veins.  “Respect?” His eyes flared as he snarled at the hero.  “Oh, I am so _sorry_ I don’t treat you like you’re perfect.  Is that what you want? For me to grovel at your feet and praise your every action like the rest of this misbegotten planet!  Well, jeez, I’m so sorry that I don’t think that you’re some sort of god!” He hissed, stalking forward.

The Prince blanched and started to backup, but there was nowhere to run.

“Don’t you move, _your majesty!_ ”  The villain spat.  “I thought you wanted me to show you some respect!  Well, let me apologize for having self-respect! I know it’s a novelty for someone like you, but it’s when I don’t see the need to pretend like you’re anything more than a pretty face that won the genetic roll of the die.   _My bad_ for being the only one brave enough to say the truth: that you’re a privileged, lucky buffoon who just so happens to have better Abilities than everyone else.  So sorry!”

The Prince clenched his hands into fists and decided to respond the only way he knew how: bravado.

“Aw.”  He smirked.  “You think I’m pretty.”

Virgil flushed hotly.  “That’s what you latch onto?  See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.  You’re too self-obsessed to realize that the people you’re supposed to be helping are suffering under the system you enforce!  You think you’re a hero and that you’re on the side of all that’s goodness and light, but that light has blinded you! You walk around with rose-tinted glasses and assume that everything is fine because your life is perfect.”

He didn’t notice the way Roman flinched at that.

“You don’t know what my world looks like.”  Virgil’s voice was raw, stripped to its very essence by rage and passion.  “You don’t know what I have to endure. You don’t know and I doubt you even care that _one hundred and forty million people_ across the planet suffer because you’re either too blind or too lazy to speak up for them.  You don’t care about the Unabled.” Virgil hissed, jabbing a finger into the hero’s chest. “You don’t care that you’re hurting people everytime you give another spiel about how powers help ‘sustain American democracy’.  You don’t care. You’re a self-obsessed, shallow moron who wouldn’t know justice if it slapped him.”

“No,”  The Prince gritted out, looming ominously above his nemesis.  “Let me apologize here. I am _so_ sorry that you think that the world is out to get you personally.  It must take a lot of ego to be that self-absorbed to think that you can change society single-handedly.  My condolences to your, I assume _very_ few, friends.  I am so sorry that you are under the mistaken impression that a grudge justifies a coup.”

“A grudge?”  Virgil stared.  “Did you not listen to anything I just said?”

“Yeah, yeah, society sucks, whatever.  But every- almost everybody benefits from it!  Why am I, specifically, your target of abhorrence?”

“You threw a car at my head two weeks ago.”

“You had it out for me before that!”

Virgil stopped and _looked_ at The Prince for the first time that day.  His hair was mussed slightly from running hands through it in frustration; his uniform was torn at the shoulder from where Virgil’s drone had latched on to him.  His cheeks were flushed with anger and his muscular frame trembled with barely suppressed anger. He was normally handsome but so pristine that he appeared unhuman, untouchable, on an entirely separate plane of existence from the mere citizens he protected.  That Virgil could deal with. Here, however, under the unflattering fluorescent lights shining from the vault’s ceiling, the hero looked human.

He looked like a regular, really handsome guy.

It infuriated Virgil.

“Yeah.  I did. You wanna know why, Princey?”  The short, clipped words fell from the villain’s lips.  “Because you betrayed me.”

“What?”

“You betrayed all of us.  The first time you saved the world, I thought that things were going to change.  Because you asked if everyone was okay. You were concerned about people and the effects of your actions.  You cared. I thought that things would be better. I trusted you. We all did.”

Guilt and anger warred inside Roman.

“But then you stopped.  You stopped asking if everyone was okay!  You stopped caring about the Unabled _and_ the Abled!”  Virgil snarled, roughly dragging his sleeve across his face to wipe away the unwanted water in his eyes.  “You stopped caring at all!”

“I didn’t!”  Roman shouted back.  “I never stopped caring!  I just… stopped liking the answer.”

“What?”

Roman crossed his arms and sank onto a crate.  “I was lucky the first time. People were hurt, but there were no fatalities.”  He laughed bitterly. “I stopped getting lucky.”

Virgil silently took a seat across from him, and Roman suddenly felt helpless under the power of the villain’s moon-gray eyes.

“The first one was Heather McLaughlin.  She was trapped in a burning building during my battle with Doctor Deceit.”  He rubbed his eyes. “Then came Grant Shirey, crushed by a robot I had just destroyed.  Then Kennedy Torrence, killed by shrapnel.” His voice took on a fervor, reciting the names of the dead like a furious chant until they all blurred together.  “Then Marcus Cruz then Waylon Dalton then La’Diamond Muldrew then Justine Henderson then Abdullah Lang then Maria Schuyler then Thalia Cobb then Mathias Little then Edwin and Jaylen Smith then Eddie Randolph then Angela Walker then Lia Shelton then Hadassah Hartman then Joanna Shaffer then Jonathon Sheppard.  

“Then I stopped asking!”  Roman clenched a fist over a spot on his chest.  “Is that what you wanted to hear?” He sat under that tarnished silver stare, quaking with rage and regret as he came to a decision.

He tore off his sash and angrily started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Woah, Princey!”  Virgil reeled back.  “I’ll admit we were having a moment there, but I think you got the subtext wrong.”

“Just look, Tam-morose-a.”  Roman shrugged off his wrath and his white shirt, revealing his bare chest.  He was undeniably buff, but what drew the villain’s eye were the stripes of black ink stamped like a brand onto his dark tawny skin, almost entirely covering the upper left quarter of his chest.  

Virgil, unable to stop himself, reached out and gently touched the names, painstakingly etched in swirling calligraphy over Roman’s heart.  

The hero shivered at the touch of the villain’s cold hands on his fevered skin.

“Why are they backwards?”  Virgil asked, tenderly tracing the looping curl of a ‘G’.

“Because I want to be able to see them in the mirror.  I want to remember them.”

Virgil retracted his hand and Roman pulled his shirt back on.

“I stopped asking…”  His hands were shaking as he tried to button his shirt back up.  He briefly entertained the fantasy of just cutting himself off and throwing this guy in jail, but it was far too late now.  Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop. “I stopped asking because I was afraid I’d run out of skin. I was afraid the names would blot out every inch of me until there was nothing left.  I’m still afraid that one day I’ll look at all of the people that I killed-”

“- you can’t blame yourself for all-”

“Isn’t that just what you were doing?”  He interrupted sharply.

The villain averted his eyes.

Roman smiled grimly.  “It doesn’t matter if it was my fault or not.  What matters is that they’re gone.” Roman closed his eyes, working his jaw as his memories tormented him.  “When it was my job to protect them.”

“Roman…” Virgil began, unsure of what to say.  “I didn’t know.”

“Only Missy does.”  He touched the spot on his chest again.  “It was actually her idea. She said it would be a good way to memorialize them.”

Virgil frowned.  “Isn’t that kind of… a punishment for you?”

“Maybe I deserve it.”

“Then why do you do it?”  Virgil, suddenly infuriated, demanded.  “Why do you keep being The Prince if you’re just going to beat yourself up for it?”

Roman responded instantly.  “Because I love it. I save people. And my abilities..." He leaned back, allowing Virgil to examine the long lines of his body. A euphoric smile played on the hero's lips.  "From what I understand, everyone else has cotton stuffed in their ears and a blindfold over their eyes compared to me."

"What?" Virgil asked, startled.

“My senses are all heightened.”  He explained, idly trailing a finger against the side of the crate he was sitting on.  It was a bad way to describe it, but he was hard-pressed to invent a more accurate turn of phrase.  How could you explain to someone the steady thrum of power just below your skin? How could you explain that your Ability didn’t feel like a skill or a tool to wield, but a part of you, just as intrinsic as a limb or sense?  How could you explain that the world was so clear, so vivid, so beautiful to someone that would never see it the way you did?  “I can feel every single grain of wood in this box. I can smell it and tell you what type of wood it is. I can look at it and pick out every single divit. I can hear your heart beating.”

Virgil had no idea how to respond to that.  “Creepy,” He finally said. That seemed reasonable.

The hero flushed as he realized what he had confessed.  “It’s not like a bad sound! It’s actually really soothing - I’m just making this worse, aren’t I.”

“You’ve dug yourself into a hole here, Princey.  I’m not going to deny it.”

“I can hear your heart BEATING IN TERROR AS I TRIUMPHANTLY DEFEAT YOU IN BATTLE!”

“There you go.”

A thought suddenly hit Virgil.  “Wait - how good does ice cream taste to you?!”  He demanded.

Roman smiled at him like the sun after a storm.  “Artificial, succulent bliss.”

Virgil shook his head.  “That’s it. I’m just going to have to straight-up kill you now.  You are already Gary-Stu levels of overpowered and now you get to taste ice cream better than everyone else?  Unacceptable.”

“Nah,”  Roman quipped.  “You couldn’t take all this, super-callous-fragile-ego-expialidocious.”

Virgil scoffed derisively.  “I seem to remember you’re the one who can’t catch me, Princey.”

His off-handed remark threw an awkward silence into the air.  They had been slipping. For a few precious seconds, they had forgotten who they were and why they were here.

They weren’t acquaintances or friends or… anything else.

They were enemies.  The second they stepped out of the vault’s door, they’d out for each other’s blood again.

Roman turned his head away, not even noticing how hard he was squeezing the side of the crate until its corner crumbled under his hand.  The villain made a startled noise and Roman flushed at his lack of self-control. “Sorry.” He opened his fist and a shower of wooden shards rained down to the titanium floor.

The villain shrugged, over-nonchalant.  “I’m just impressed you don’t get splinters.”

Roman managed to crack a grin.  “Invincibility has its perks,” He joked, trying to dispel the awkward tension settling over them.

“You don’t even bleed, do you?”

“I never have before.”  Roman sometimes wondered if there actually was blood running through his veins.  He could just be running on pseudo-patriotism and bluster. If someone ever could cut him open, maybe they would find that he really was hollow all the way through.  “I mean, I got bit by a rat one time, but all that did was kinda pinch the skin.”

The villain blinked, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.  Somehow that half-smile made it easier for Roman to breathe again. “You got bit by a rat?”

Roman couldn’t help but grin back.  “It was raiding the candy drawer.”

“Good thing you didn’t get hurt then.  You could’ve ended up magnier than you are now.”

“Watch it, Hawthorne Frights.”

The purple-haired man raised his hands in mock defence.  “That could be technically considered a complement; I’d take it if I were you.”

Roman rolled his eyes.  “That was not a complement.  That was a wild speculation based on the fact that my Abilities are the coolest.”

“Yeah, well.”  The villain rolled his shoulder gingerly.  His sleeve rode up, allowing Roman to see a patchwork of yellow and purple bruises, remnants of the fight with Calamity.  “Not all of us are lucky enough not to bleed.”

Something plaintive settled itself in Roman’s chest.  "Well that just proves it!” He blustered, building his walls back up.  This was too much, too fast. “My abilities _are_ awesome," He proclaimed grandly before a bittersweet smile played over his lips. "They're the best thing about me."

Virgil somehow doubted that.

They sat in silence, but not without communication.  Both silently considered and was considered by the man in front of them, absorbing and testing their newly acquired knowledge against prior prejudices.

“How do you come up with those nicknames?  All the ones that you call me?” Virgil, suddenly certain he would burst out of his skin under Roman’s caramel-brown gaze, asked.  “I mean, you don’t just go home and google emo bands, do you?”

Roman flushed.

Virgil’s eyes widened.  “No way.”

“Shut up.”

“You do!  You go to whatever secret mansion you have-”

“-It’s a penthouse.”

“-of course it is.  And google emo bands!”  He leaned forward, armed with a teasing grin.  “Do you have a list of potential nicknames or do you just make them up on the fly?”

“Both.”  Roman begrudgingly admitted, much to the villain’s delight.  He snickered benignly; Roman suddenly realized what a nice smile he had.  

The villain calmed, but his eyes still sparkled with mirth.  “Well, come on then, Princey. Let’s get out of here. I’d hate to keep you from your very important word-play.”

Roman snorted.  “You kept shooting down all of my ideas earlier, remember, Black Veil Broods?”

The villain glared.  “I’m trying to be helpful here, but I have no problem with tying you up again.”

“Kinky.”  Roman mused, ignoring his nemesis’s indignant splutter.  “But unless you’ve got another one of those creepy drones somewhere in that emo jacket of yours, you’ll have a hard time with that.”

Virgil’s eyes widened.  “That’s it!” He jumped up.  “Princey, you’re a genius!”

“I know.”  The Prince struck a pose.  “Wait, what’d I do?”

Virgil hunted through the crates near the oversized hinges.  “The drone bounced off of these hinges, it should still be around here somewhere.  Help me look.”

The Prince simply scanned the area.  “Two feet to your left; behind the double-stacked row.”

“Super-vision?”

“Super-vision.”

A voice that sounded suspiciously like his girlfriend scolded him for revealing as much as he had to a villain, but looking into his supposed nemesis’s soft gray eyes, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The villain strolled up to the makeshift workbench, looking completely at ease and confident.  Roman had never seen him act like that.

It was a good look.

“Here,”  The villain reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small case, filled with various screwdrivers.  “Hold this.”

Roman took it obligingly.

“And this.”  He handed the hero a strange silver orb.  It was humming slightly.

“And this.”  He passed him a device that looked like a cross between a walkie-talkie and a hand-mixer.

“And this.”  He gave him another screwdriver set.

“And this.”  This time it was a pocket watch with the back ripped off and several springs missing.

“And this.”  A small notebook pad.

“And this.”  Two mechanical cherries.

“And this.”  A vial of something vicious and green.

“And this.”  Another screwdriver set.

“And this.”  The missing springs from the pocket watch.

“And this.”  It was a… Roman actually had no idea what it was.

“You’re just screwing with me at this point, aren’t you?”

“What?  No!” The villain flashed a wicked grin as he stacked a plastic baggie of gears on top of the pile in Roman’s arms.  “I was screwing with you from the beginning.”

Roman laughed despite himself.  “Just how much stuff do you keep in those pockets?”

“Enough to mess with my sworn enemy.”

“Is that what we are?”  Roman flashed a charming smile.

The villain’s face colored.  “Stop trying to distract me, Princey.  I’m working here.”

Roman sat more or less (less. Much less)  quietly as the villain carefully used one of his many screwdrivers to unhinge a tiny panel in the drone’s body.  “Here, hold this so I can see.” He suddenly tossed a flashlight at Roman, who snatched it out of the air with ease.

“Were you hoping you could hit me?”

“Maybe.”

“You are an emo nightmare.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere.  Move the light to the left a little… yeah, that’s it.”  Roman’s companion gently manipulated a pair of tweezers through the miniscule components of the drone’s hardware.

Roman couldn’t help but notice the strange grace in his long, thin fingers.  They moved like dancers on a stage, never faltering or misstepping - just creating.  It wasn’t a task or chore; it was innovation in its purest form.

“What are you making?”

His face was obscured by violet locks of hair, but the small smile gracing his mouth was impossible to miss.  “A present for you. You can’t punch through it normally, but titanium versus titanium propelled by the world’s strongest man?  It just might work.”

“Might?!”

“Calm down, Princey.  That’s where I come in.”  He rearranged a few wires and pulled out a small green circuit board, touching an instrument to it that sent up puffs of smoke.  “The universe, by nature, favors disorder. Entropy. What we are going to do…” He gently placed the board back inside and began to fuse the drone’s remaining legs together, leaving a hollow place in the center.  “Is let it get to that point.”

“How?”

The villain, much to Roman’s surprise, didn’t scoff and tell him he wouldn’t understand.  He just lit up and started to explain, in great detail, exactly what he was doing and how the device would work.  And, no, Roman did not understand a bit of his technobabble, but he found himself listening intently to the villain’s lilting voice.

A part of his mind he usually managed to suppress said that the villain spoke the way chocolate tasted.

“So when you wire that pointy thing-”  Roman said, leaning in closer.

“The axel.”

“To the springy bit-”  Their bangs brushed togather as they hunched over the invention.

“That’s just a spring.”

“And connect it to the wheel thing-”  The villain slapped Roman’s hand away before he could poke said wheel thing.

“Don’t touch the sprocket.”

“You focus the energy?

“Yeah, you got it, Princey.”  The villain’s rosy lips turned up in amusement.  “Guess you aren’t a complete moron after all.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that, but someone won’t listen to me.”

The villain laughed at that, amusement turning the sharp edges of his face softer, kinder.  He suddenly looked so gentle. His purple hair flopped over one of his eyes as he chuckled.

Roman’s fingers twitched; he was struck with the urge to smooth the violet locks back into place.  

“Here,”  The villain took Roman’s hand in his cold fingers.  “You’ve got to put it on. It’s an… entropy gauntlet, or whatever you heroic types prefer to call a glove.”

Roman allowed the villain to strap his arm into the machine as he studied his companion.  He hadn’t realized it before, but he was almost tall as the hero himself, perhaps only an inch or so shorter.  After a lifetime of people avoiding his gaze, here was someone who easily looked him in the eye.

In more ways than one, he thought, firmly reminding himself of the _villain’s_ insurrections.

“Done.”

Roman stared at the odd gauntlet encircling his fist and arm.  “So, I just punch it?”

“Yup.  As hard as you can.”

Roman pulled his fist back, ready to strike.

“Wait!”  The villain stopped him.  He located Roman’s discarded sash and ripped it into fourths, much to the hero’s dismay.

“That’s silk!”  Roman cried.

“And this,”  The villain stuffed two shreds of fabric into his ears before offering Roman the other two quarters.  “Is going to save our hearing.”

“Heathen.”  Roman groused, taking the material and padding his ears.

“Okay!  Let’s get out of this claustrophobic hellhole.”  The villain flashed Roman a thumbs up.

“What?”

“I said ‘let’s get out of this claustrophobic hellhole’!”

“What?”

“Let’s go!  Punch it!”

“What?”

“PUNCH IT, PRINCEY.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“JUST-”  The villain broke off as the hero started snickering.  “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

Roman flashed a genuine grin.  “Revenge is sweet.”

He hauled his arm back and smashed through the door with a deafening shriek of metal on metal.  “Hey, it worked.” He took the silk out of his ears and let it flutter to the floor.

The villain peaked out from behind a crate.  “I had complete confidence in you.” He had already removed his silk mufflers.

“Is that why you were cowering in the darkness?”  The hero chuckled, groping around outside until he found the bolt.

“No.” The purple-haired man stood and brushed himself off, secretly activating a hidden switch.  “There was a small chance it would explode.” He pushed the door open with a smirk.

“You were just going to let me blow up?”  Roman cried, aghast as the villain sauntered past him into the moon-lit room.

“You could walk it off.”  

“But what about my _hair_?”  Roman demanded, stalking after him until the entrance to the vault was unguarded.

The villain’s eyes were trained almost on Roman, but ever so slightly over his shoulder.  Roman thought he saw a shadow dart into the vault behind him, but the thought fled as the villain spoke again.

“You’d be handsome enough without it.”

Roman looked at the man that was supposed to be his nemesis, backdropped in shadow, but with starlight streaming through the hole in the wall and shining in his amused gray eyes.

“I plan not to go bald, if possible.”

The purple-haired man turned his head to hide his smile, but Roman could never miss something that radiant.

The villain sobered, looking out at the sky.  “It’s nearly dawn. I’ve got to roll.”

Roman frowned, confused.  “Aren’t you going to… you know… do the stealing thing?”  He gestured at the open safe behind him without looking at it.

Roman’s companion smirked.  “Look.”

Roman whirled around to see that the safe was partially empty, four large crates of abiletum missing.  “How?” He demanded, turning to his nemesis.

The villain only smirked harder.  “I sent in another drone while you were busy being a corporate tool.”  He turned and took a step towards the gap in the wall, but hesitated. “Look, Roman.”  His voice had gone surprisingly soft. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but…”  He turned around. “Legality isn’t morality. The way things have been aren’t always the way they should be.  I hope you’ll realize that someday.”

He stood under a spotlight of moonbeams, face shining with sincerity and starlight.  His lean figure was effortlessly poised, wiry frame coiled with tension as he prepared to burst into action at a moment’s notice.  There was a restlessness about him, inscribed into the set of his shoulders, as if he would never be happy unless he was doing, making, or moving.  His purple bangs couldn’t cover the way his eyes gleamed with a fierce intelligence and an even fiercer hope as stared challengingly at the hero.

He was the most beautiful thing Roman had ever seen.

The villain strode confidently into the gap Roman had made and stood, looking down several floors at the ground below.

Roman found his voice.  “I don’t know what you’re doing, or what you are planning, but I will find out and I will stop you.”

The villain turned his head towards him.  “You’ve got to catch me first.” Then he spread his arms, silhouette streaming across the room and over Roman, and he fell.

Roman gasped and ran over to look through the hole.  There was no one there. He sighed in relief, slumping against the broken edge of the building.  

He wondered why he was relieved then found his answer in the way the purple-haired man had looked at him, relentlessly determined to help the people Roman hadn’t even realized he was hurting.  He thought of shining gray eyes and rosy lips and a sharp tongue. He thought of long, delicate fingers carefully building something incredible.

His heart stopped.  Then it increased its drumming tenfold.

“Oh,”  He murmured softly.  “Oh.”

This could be a problem.

 

Only a few blocks away, Logan and Kaimi worked tirelessly through the night, sorting through information and statistics and maps of New Psyche, and trying not to get overwhelmed.  

A piece of paper fluttered, and Kaimi reached up to grab it without looking.  “Joan got the stats on population we needed.”

“Excellent.  We’ll put it next to the article about Bake My Day.”

“What?  No! That would totally ruin the flow.  Put it under the part about workplace discrimination.”

They drafted and bickered and rewrote and rewrote again and proofread and edited and printed until their eyes were heavy with shadows and their hands streaked with ink, but that didn’t matter.  They were ready to send out the first copy of their newspaper. There was only one problem.

“What’re we going to call it?”

Logan shot his companion a withering glare.  “Really, Kaimi? We are poised to commit something akin to insurrection that could _easily_ be mislabeled as yellow journalism and potentially get us both tried for treason, but your priority is what we’re going to name it?”

She shrugged.  “No one is going to read a paper with a lame name.”

Logan fought amusement at the serendipitous rhyme.  “I concede the point. Did you have a name in mind?”

“There’s really only one option here.”

The next morning, citizens of New Psyche woke up to find the first edition of **The Truth** sitting on their doorsteps.

Meanwhile, Virgil lay on top of his lumpy mattress, too exhausted to change as he stared with bleary eyes at his ceiling.  The stars he had painted there didn’t glow anymore, he knew that; however, for some reason, right before he fell asleep, he could’ve sworn he saw one of them start to shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, Princey's got it bad.
> 
> Not ending the chapter on a vaguely ominous note???? Who am I anymore.
> 
> I mean to post it like two chapters ago, but here is Virgil's coat:  
> http://www.darkincloset.com/men/614-punk-rave-black-long-to-short-gothic-military-trench-coat-for-men.html
> 
> The next chapter miiiiight be a bit later than usual; I'm working on eleven and it is a Behemoth. Plus, I need to get the appropriate foreshadowing and all that jazz in place.
> 
> Also, if anyone out there ever wants to make fanart / moodboards / a playlist for this fic, feel free! Just be sure to drop a comment with a link to I can check it out ;)
> 
> I absolutely adore everyone who leaves comments, kudos, subscribes, or just reads this and enjoys it!
> 
> but yeah roast me if you see a typo


	10. Local Emo's Skill in Making Bad Decisions Unparallelled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied suicide attempt! Skip the paragraphs starting with "Xe shook xyr head." and "Horror sank its claws"

The abiletum was the missing piece.

Or, it would’ve been, at least, if his stupid brain would just work already.

Virgil groaned, slumping over what must’ve been his thirtieth attempt at a design today.  He didn’t know for sure if anything would work, and his anxiety was screaming at him that it’d be be dangerous to test a faulty prototype.

His mind wandered, and he felt his lips curve.  He forced them back down into scowl, shook his head, and tried to force ideas to form.

“Come on, brain,”  He chanted, bouncing a pencil against his forehead.  “Think of things. Come on, brain. Be so smart.”

This might have been easier if he could just get his stupid mind to focus on the task at hand and not a hero, mused slightly enough to look infuriatingly human.  If he could just stop thinking about dark ink pressed on skin and sassy banter and a caramel-brown gaze and a surprising genuineness. If he could just stop thinking about -

 _Roman_.  Virgil looked down at the paper he had been drafting on to see that his hand had written the hero’s name without his consent.  He scribbled it out maliciously.

Focus.  

Anti-powers ray.  

Going to seal some powers.  

Yay.

Now if only he could think of _how_ it would work.  He had drafted several plans before his heist and even constructed the rest of the ray, but all of his work was hypothetical.  Unless he actually took the final plunge and tested it out on someone, he had no idea if it would actually work or not.

Virgil hated uncertainties.

A soft knock came on the door, and Virgil startled, falling off of his chair with a crash and taking several blueprints with him.

“Kiddo?”  A voice called.  “You okay in there?”

Virgil scrambled to hide anything incriminating, flipping over all of his designs and throwing butcher paper over a nearby table littered with tiny models.  “I’m fine, Pat! I just… dropped my shirt.”

Logan’s voice came as well.  “It sounded much heavier than that.”

Virgil winced.  “I was in it.”

“Come on, Kiddo, open up!”

“Coming!”  He called, frantically scanning to make sure nothing incriminating was left in the open.  

“Hey, Lo.  Hey, Pat.” He swung the door open and stood over-casually in the doorway, conspicuously barring their view of his lab.  “What’s up?”

The baker looked especially lovely today, chubby frame wrapped in a soft gray cotton dress.  He was wearing his second palest blue wristband. “We just wanted to share the good news!”

“It appears, however,”  Logan side-eyed Virgil. “That you’ve already heard it.”

Virgil felt tension in his cheeks and realized that he was smiling besottedly.  Again. “No.” He forced his face to relax back into Patton called his ‘resting sad face’.  “I’ve been working all day.”

“Most of last night too, huh?”  Patton asked, with not a little concern.

Virgil’s anxiety did the thing where it decided that everyone in the world was psychic (even though only an estimated .005 percent of the population had that particular Ability) and that his friends spontaneously knew everything that he had been doing.

He realized he had waited far too long to respond.  His friends were eyeing him with suspicion and concern, respectively.  “What do you mean?”

“Not to provoke any acrimony between us, Virgil, but you do appear rather…”  Logan fished around in his pocket to pull out and peer at his notecards. “Dead inside.”

“Hey, that one was right!”  Patton praised the astronomer, who preened.

“If you’re done flirting.”  Virgil arched an unimpressed eyebrow.  “You have news?”

Patton grinned.  “You’re going to have to see it to believe it.”

Channel 42 had been scrambling to find someone to replace Kaimi, who had apparently suffered some sort of nervous breakdown a few days ago. They hurled one bland anchor after the other in front of the camera in a desperate attempt to keep ratings up. As Virgil and his friends gathered around the TV in the planetarium’s break room, they noticed that the one currently on screen was not visibly different than any of the previous: classically handsome in a way that made him look quite boring.  His hair, skin, and suit were all varying shades of beige. He stretched lips which must’ve cost thousands of dollars in plastic surgery to get into a perfect cupid's bow into a smile, barring aggressively bleached teeth as he began to speak.

"The Prince has finally passed a controversial bill forbidding discrimination in hiring the Unabled through the house."

Virgil felt his heart leap.

"Under this new bill, employers will not legally be privileged to know the Ability of their potential employee, or lack thereof."  The blandly handsome reporter continued. “The Prince has reportedly been at the capitol building, negotiating for this bill for the past three days.”

Three days.  They had been trapped in that vault together three days ago.  That meant Roman had literally gone straight from First Pons Bank to the capitol.

The reporter continued to yammer on, something about the corruption of democracy and the mixed reactions from the public, but Virgil tuned him out easily.  All he could hear was the thudding of his own pulse.

 _It’s really soothing_ , Roman had said.

“Isn’t this great, Kiddo!”  Patton squealed, grabbing his arm - the uninjured one, thankfully - and jumping up and down.

Logan watched the two of them with a small, contented grin.  “Perhaps, in light of these new developments, NASA will have to rethink its prior decision.”

Patton gasped in excitement.  “I hadn’t even thought of that!  Oh my goodness, this is such an amazing day!  I can’t _bill-_ ieve it.”

“Nice one,”  Virgil muttered on autopilot.  He focused on stilling his shaking hands.

The blandly handsome reporter continued.  “In addition to these sweeping and controversial actions, The Prince has announced that he will be hosting a gala this Saturday in order to raise money and awareness for our local homeless shelter, The United Nationally Across Boundaries in Loving Every Denizen shelter, which largely houses Unabled citizens.  These provocative actions have led to harsh condemnation of The Prince by some lobbyist groups, including the Powered Citizens United Corp.”

Virgil and Logan simultaneously groaned at the mention of the radical group while Patton sighed softly.  “I do not like them.”

“Ooh, Pat!”  Virgil flashed his shorter friend a smirk, pulling him in for a half-hug.  “Way to get fired up.”

The baker giggled and tucked his head into the villain’s side, comfortably settling in for some snuggles.  Virgil felt his heart swell as Patton’s soft blonde hair tickled his arm. “Where you been lately, kiddo?” The baker asked softly.  “I feel like I barely see you.”

A sudden pang of guilt hit Virgil before he batted it away.  He was doing all of this for Patton and Logan and every other Unabled person out there.  This was only temporary. When he had finished his job, when he finally made the world safer, then everything would return to normal.

None of this he could say to Patton.  “What are you talking about, Pat?” He deflected.  “We see each other almost every day.”

Logan settled onto a soft couch and patted the space next to him with a pointed clearing of his throat.  Virgil made to shuffle over there, but he was hampered by one very insistent cinnamon roll of a person.

“Pat?”  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  “You gonna let me go?”

The person in question buried his face into Virgil’s side.  “Nope,” He hummed, voice muffled.

Virgil leaned down slightly to whisper.  “Not even when Logan wants to snuggle too?”

Patton almost broke their necks scrambling over to the couch.

The three squished onto the couch in a tangling of limbs, a stifling of laughter, and a negotiating of arrangements.  The two taller of the friends both wanted Patton to sit beside him, but Patton just giggled and solved the problem by settling between the two of them, both of their arms wrapped around him to touch the other.

“You need to spend less time in that lab of yours, Kiddo,”  Patton chastised him kindly. “You’re looking tired.”

Virgil sighed and leaned back, exposing the long, pale line of his neck.  Patton and Logan both found their eyes riveted to it. “I know. I’ve just been stuck on a big project lately; nothing seems to be working.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re taking a break.”  Logan reassured him. “Have you ever heard of the Yerkes–Dodson law?  It states that you can only have so much stress when working on a project before you began to work against yourself.”

“It’s important to be well rested and fed!”  Patton chimed in.

Virgil found himself smiling, head still tilted back.  “Thanks, guys.”

“It will prove beneficial to refocus your energies for a time.”

Virgil’s head snapped up.  “Oh! I can’t believe I forgot!”  He disentangled himself from the knot of limbs.  “I’ll be right back!” He called over his shoulder as he rushed down the hallway to his lab.

Patton looked at Logan.  “You’ve still got the key to his apartment, right?”

“Of course.  Might I ask why?”

“We might have to break in and force him to sleep.”

“Duly noted.”

Virgil appeared back in the doorway, slightly out of breath.  “I forgot. I made another little something trying to get over engineer’s block.”

Virgil tossed a bundle, swaddled in white fabric, underhanded.  Patton made a valliant attempt to grab it but fumbled. The invention almost smashed against the ground, saved only by Logan nabbing it at the last second.

Patton shrugged sheepishly.  “I always was more of a thrower than a catcher.”

Logan had a mysterious coughing fit.

“It’s for you, Lo.”  Virgil smiled too-brightly, one foot tapping out an erratic pattern.

Patton smiled reassuringly at him as Logan carefully unwrapped the thin cotton sheet to reveal a mechanical rat, anatomically perfect and glistening with copper overlay.  What puzzled him, however, was the odd shape of the animal’s teeth.

“It’s a pencil sharpener,”  Virgil explained, nervously picking at the skin at the side of his nail.  “I figured you’d appreciate a something both ‘aesthetically and functionally pleasing’.”

“I’d have appreciated it either way.”  Logan confessed, a small smile gracing his face at his friend’s impersonation of him.  “But as is… this is more than adequate for my current needs.”

Virgil ducked his head to hide a smile, recognizing praise from the astronomer when he heard it.

“Awww, Kiddo!”  Patton cooed. “You made another mech- _animal_!”

Logan vaguely remembered Patton’s clockwork rabbit.  “So it is you who is responsible for Patton’s automated pet.”

Virgil waggled his eyebrows.  “Been in Patton’s apartment lately, have you?”

The two on the couch flushed.  “It’s great though!” Patton chirped, desperately trying to hide the way his freckles stood out against his red cheeks.  “Now _Pat-_ hos will have a friend!”

Logan blinked slowly.  “You named your rabbit… Pat-thos?”  He cleared his throat. “Then I suppose mine shall be Lo-gos.”

Patton’s head snapped over to look at the astronomer.  They were so close their glasses almost knocked together.  “Did you just make a dad joke?” He gasped.

Logan adamantly denied it, but made no move to create any distance between the two of them.  Virgil vaguely wondered if he should let them have the room.

“You made a pun!  You made a pun!” Patton sang in delight.

They were so close on the couch now.  Virgil found his hands clasped together in front of his face.   _Please kiss please kiss please kiss._

Logan rolled his eyes to mask his embarrassment; his vision caught on Virgil.  Something flashed over his face, but was just as quickly gone. “Virgil, what are you doing over there?”  He pulled Patton closer to himself - much to the baker’s delight - to make room on the couch. “This is what we in the scientific community commonly refer to as… snuggle time.”

Virgil sighed in exasperation.  Those two would never get over themselves.  Nevertheless, he plopped down on the couch next to his friends, wrapping an arm around Patton and lacing his fingers together with Logan’s.

They sat in contented silence for a while, watching the bouncing puppy footage that, for some inexplicable reason, ran in the background of stock market news.  Patton nestled closer to them and Logan took the opportunity to toy with the baker’s hair.

Virgil was so relaxed that he almost fell asleep before the baker’s soft voice interrupted him mid-snooze.

“Virge?  You can tell us anything; you know that, right?  I don’t want there to be any secrets between us three.”

Logan’s hand stilled momentarily before he resumed running his fingers through the baker’s soft, blonde hair.  “Quite right.” He confirmed hypocritically.

He’d never be able to tell Patton what he was doing, not after what the baker had confessed to him; and he’d never force Virgil to keep his abysmal secret.

“I know.”  Virgil lied plaintively.  “Of course I can.”

His friends would hate him if they knew what he was doing, even if it was for altruistic reasons.  Logan was a rule follower, through and through. There was no way he’d approve of clandestine activities.  And Patton… Patton was far too angelic for him. He was everything Virgil wasn’t - kind and honest and good.

“Good.”  The baker sighed in contentment and settled comfortably between the two men he knew to be liars.

 

Unfortunately, even after the very _scientific_ snuggle time, Virgil still couldn’t focus.  Only, this time, he had a sneaking suspicion as to why.  It was a dumb suspicion, but the only one he currently possessed.  He had no idea where it came from: that moronic, persistent, intrusive thought that the Prince -- that Roman might be the cause of... it.  That he might be the reason his mind kept slipping away and he found himself humming something other than Welcome To The Black Parade. The reason he found himself smiling without any valid basis.  

It would have been nauseating but acceptable if it was just the blind adoration of his high school days; this, however, was something entirely new.  He couldn’t stop thinking about how Roman had fought to get that bill passed, taking public heat and criticism. The way he had acted with the teens at UNABLED, his eyes sparkling and voice laughing as he wove a story out of thin air.  The way he had smiled at Virgil three days ago, like the sun after a storm. The snarky nicknames he came up with. The way Virgil felt, alive with adrenaline and excitement, whenever they went toe-to-toe. The way those names, stamped into Roman’s skin like a brand, had felt beneath Virgil’s fingertips.

Regret for misjudging Roman was gnawing at a hollow place behind his ribs, but it was quickly being replaced with something else.  A rose was blooming in his chest and the petals kept gently tickling his sides. They sent shivers up his spine and goosebumps across his skin and a blush to his cheeks.  They spread stardust through his veins until he glowed.

It sucked.

It horrified him; he kept anticipating thorns that hadn’t yet come.  But he knew they would. He could just picture it now: Roman would do something, anything, and the thorns would sprout, tearing up his intestines, his lungs, his traitorous heart, until he wouldn’t be able to speak past the blood flooding his chest.  Good things never lasted for Virgil. He had learned to anticipate the end of everything that brought him joy.

He scolded himself.  Why did he have to feel like this?  He was never lucky enough to get carnations, only roses that would pierce his side and spill him out.  He was being stupid. He had one intimate conversation with the guy (nevermind the fact that they had been flir- bantering on their various run-ins for almost four months now) in which he portrayed himself in a manner that was a bit different than how Virgil previously saw him, and now his stupid brain and his stupid heart decided to mutiny?  Unacceptable. Disgusting. Idiotic. Gross.

It was like arsenic; a slow-acting poison invading his body, polluting his system.  Just when he would think all was well, the toxin would suffocate his mind.

Even if he wanted it, he could never act on this feeling in his chest.  It was narcissistic to think that The Prince could ever reciprocate his tentative feelings.  (They probably didn’t even deserve to be classified as feelings. Just a normal reaction to seeing a guy who’s not as awful as you thought he was with his shirt off.)  He had Missy Darnelle. They were madly in love. The Prince was a hero; Virgil was a villain. He would never abandon his mission for anyone, especially not The Prince.  (Even if Roman was now helping the Unabled too.) Heroes and villains didn’t mix. Everyone knew that.

He studiously shoved every inkling of a thought of a notion of The Prince out of his mind.  Time to focus.

He looked up at the clock and realized that it was pushing three in the morning.  He looked down at the messy diagrams on the table before him and hissed in frustration as his nitpicking mind found yet another potential problem with his latest design.  He ran a hand through his greasy hair - when was the last time he had taken a shower? - and heaved a sigh, only to wince. Come to think of it, when was the last time he had taken off his binder?  He fumblingly rolled out of it, cracking his stiff spine as he did so.

The problem, Virgil considered as he settled back down and threw yet another piece of blueprint paper into an overflowing trash bin, was that no one actually knew that much about Abilities.  They were temperamental, varying from person to person in potency, effect, and existence. Maybe he had been approaching this wrong. It was arrogant of him to assume he could figure this problem out without any help.

He finally arrived at a grim conclusion: he needed to ask for help.

He shuddered.

Shoving his papers aside with a bit too much vindictiveness, he scrounged his homemade laptop up from somewhere inside the whirling hurricane of blueprints.  

 _Abilities expert_ he typed into the search bar.  Surely the shining chrome gates of Google could save him now.  All that came up was a youtube video of two very unofficial people claiming to be experts on everything, from money to Abilities to sports.

He tried again, searching _Science of Abilities_ .  All that came up was a website encouraging people to take a quick quiz and see what scientific career they should pursue based on their ability!!!  With the three exclamation marks. Somehow that irked him more than the Unabled erasure. Because _obviously_ it wasn’t like Unabled people or people who had interests beyond their Ability existed or anything.

He was considering taking drastic measures and looking in the second page of his search results when a jolt of inspiration hit him.  New Psyche University had a small but well-funded research department. Just maybe it had a professor of Abilities or something.

 _New Psyche University Abilities Researcher,_ he typed.  Bingo.

Doctor Eniola C. Ayodele’s picture popped up with a small biography.   _Professor Ayodele has headed New Psyche University’s research lab since xe started working here twelve years ago.  Xyr impressive qualifications include a doctorate in bioengineering and a masters in statistics. Xe teaches an online class on the science and statistics behind Abilities, a field xe has made remarkable discoveries in._

Virgil allowed tension to seep from his shoulders.  Perfect. He scanned further down the page until he found what he was looking for.   _Doctor Ayodele’s office hours are from three pm to seven pm every Monday and Tuesday._  It was, technically speaking, Tuesday morning.  He stretched his arms behind his head. He could take a break - and a shower, he thought as he accidentally caught a whiff of himself - and meet Doctor Ayodele that night.  Plus, he could grab a nap; he was exhausted.

It was no wonder he didn’t see the hidden yellow eyes watching his endless trudge home.

 

Doctor Ayodele was an arrestingly alert person in xyr late sixties with hair that had skipped going gray and went straight to white, frosting over at the temples and roots of xyr close-cropped afro.  Laughter and frown lines mapped out a full life on xyr deep black skin. Xyr lips seemed permanently curved upwards in a perpetual state of bemused skepticism, complementing xyr garish hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.  What impressed Virgil, however, was how xe sat calmly at xyr mahogany desk as Virgil crept in through the window in full supervillain regalia. His scuffed combat boots hit the ground with a soft thud.

“There is a door, you know.”  Xe casually sipped from cup of coffee emblazoned with **World’s Okayest Professor** and grimaced.  It had gone cold.

Virgil, startled at being addressed so casually, responded without thinking.  “Aren’t you… alarmed? A weird guy in an emo jacket just jumped through your window.”

To his surprise, Doctor Ayodele visibly brightened.  “Oh, you actually did come in through the window? I didn’t hear your footsteps in the hallway and figured I might as well go for it.”

Virgil caught a glimpse of xyr milky-white eyes and realized with a start that xe was blind.  “You expect people to come in through your window?”

“Well, no,”  Xe conceded, taking a thoughtful sip of coffee and grimacing again.  “But I always find it better to be prepared for the unexpected.” Xe grinned, suddenly looking much younger than xe was.  “Seems as if the unexpected has finally arrived.”

“You are remarkably calm about this.”  Virgil could not physically comprehend how someone could be this chill.  “What if I was a murderer?”

“Are you a murderer?”

“No.”

“Then I do believe I’m fine.”  Xe chuckled. “Have a seat, son.”

Virgil hesitantly perched on the edge of a leather seat, studded with tarnished bronze buttons.  “I’m here because I hear you’re the leading expert on the science of Abilities.”

Xe sighed.  “No one ever drops in for a social call nowadays.”

“I’d like to know more about your research.”

Xe went silent for a long moment.  “Who are you, precisely?”

“No one of consequence.”

“I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

Doctor Ayodele shook xyr head, a weariness settling over xem.  “Do you know what my Ability is, young man?” Xe asked.

He frowned, the website didn’t mention one.  “No.”

Xe chuckled, a dark and rich sound, closing xyr sightless eyes as xe leaned back in xyr seat.  “Forgive me, I misspoke. I should have said, ‘do you know what my Ability _was_.’”

Virgil leaned forward intently.  “I thought it was impossible for Abilities to be taken away.”

Doctor Ayodele waved a hand airily, brushing away his misconceptions.  “Most people do,” Xe conceded. “Probably because it rarely happens. I am one in seven reported cases in the past fifty years.”

“Doctor Ayodele-”

“Please, call me Doc.”

“Doc, what exactly…”  Virgil searched for a polite way to put it.  “What happened?”

Instead of answering his question, Doc picked up a wrinkled newspaper from the corner of xyr desk and brandished it at him. **The Truth,** it read.  “Have you seen this?”  Xe asked. “Remarkable paper.  I’ve been having my TA read it to me everyday.  It has some insightful news about the recent attacks that new supervillain has made.”  Xyr sightless eyes narrowed. “And it seems to me that if I was a villain with a grudge against the Abled, I would seek out the leading expert on Abilities, just to see if there was a way I could… even the playing field, so to speak.”

Virgil sat quietly for a moment.  “I’m not here to hurt you, Doc. I just need some information.”

“I have no doubt of that, son.  Your track record is remarkable: no deaths, only a few minor injuries.  I only hope that you will hear my story all the way through and restrain yourself from making an rash decisions.”

Virgil stifled a snort.  Him? Rash? Never. “Okay, Doc.  You got it.”

The doctor gave a short nod of satisfaction.  “When I was younger, I was in love with my Ability.  I thought it was the best thing in the world. It was my favorite thing about myself.”  

Virgil batted away the strains of another voice.   _They're the best thing about me._

Doctor Ayodele’s voice grew deep and resonant as xe drifted back in time, a bittersweet smile playing on the edges of xyr thick lips.  Virgil let himself be swept along with xym into the story. “I could manipulate light. I still remember how often my little sister begged me to show her my illusions.  ‘Ena, please! Show me the bubbles again.’ I would make fairies fly in front of her, I would spin mirages out of thin air.” Xyr smile faded away. “But when I was almost twenty, I was in a car accident.  I lost a lot of blood and suffered a traumatic impact to my cerebellum.” Xe touched the back of xyr head unconsciously. “When I woke up in the hospital, I couldn’t see a thing. When I tried to use my Ability, I found that I couldn’t.”  Xe took a deep breath. “The way I figured it, I had either lost my ability due to brain trauma, losing too much abiletum through my blood, or not being able to know that I was using it anymore.”

“How would that even work?”

Doc jerked slightly, as if surprised Virgil was still there, before settling back into professor mode.  “At the time, I believed it was psychosomatic, but as I was granted the resources to study it further, I discovered that conscious abilities - those that you have to focus to make work - can atrophy if not used for long periods of time.”

Xe shook xyr head.  “But I didn’t care about that the time.  For a long time… I didn’t care about anything.”   Doctor Ayodele touched one of xyr wrists gently.

Horror sank its claws into Virgil as he saw the long, gnarled scar that marred xyr ebony skin.  “Did you-”

Doc smiled tightly.  “I survived. I decided that I’d stop mindlessly accepting fate and figure out why it happened at all.”  Xe allowed satisfaction to flit across xyr face. “And I did. You see, it wasn’t the brain trauma or the psychology, although both are viable.  It was my blood. I ran tests on myself to see that there was no longer any abiletum in it. That’s how you could do it. Strip someone’s blood clean and they’ll lose their Abilities.”

Virgil divided himself in half.  Freezing and feverish. Elated and nauseated.  Jittery and paralyzed. The sides grated against each other until he felt he was being crushed into a fine powder, drifting away in the wind.  “No.” He heard his voice say. “That’s awful.”

Doctor Ayodele forced xemself to swig the rest of xyr coffee.  “I never said it wasn’t, son, but information isn’t meant to be hoarded.  I only hope,” Xe turned xyr gnarled face in Virgil’s direction. “That now you can make the right decision.”  Xe shifted away, silently dismissing the villain.

Virgil murmured a soft gratitude and prepared to pull himself out of the window.

“Oh!”  Doctor Ayodele’s voice stopped him.  “If you’re not too busy, could you get me another cup of coffee?”

 

Virgil stumbled onto New Psyche University’s plush campus, feeling something unspeakable buzzing beneath his skin.  He forced his lungs to take gasps of the chilled air, letting it soothe him as he looked around. The campus was lovely, especially at night.  Tall oak trees sheltered him from the towering buildings; the gravel pathway was lit by old-fashioned lamps, humming with a soothing yellow light.  It was almost entirely deserted except for a woman on dainty high heels was walking away from him, rounding a corner.

He kept breathing in slow, measured inhalations and felt himself calm.  He was fine.  He was faced with an impossible dilemma, but he was - currently, probably, objectively - fine.

Virgil prowled down the street, intent on uncovering his hoverbike, when flashes of lights bombarded him.  His dazzled eyes took in - oh no.

Scratch fine, he was screwed.

Before he could even consider making a break for it, he was completely and totally surrounded by his worst nightmare:  The Paparazzi.

He grabbed at his hood and half-mask, desperately trying to ensure his face was covered.

“Who are you?”  They swarmed like sharks smelling blood.

“What do you call yourself?”  The mob jostled against itself for a better view.

“Why do you hate the Abled?”  It reached out to grab him as he desperately searched his pockets for something, anything to help.

“Is it true you are the one behind the string of recent heists?”  He flinched away from the oppressive, blinding lights; the microphones jabbed at him like razor-sharp spears; the thin, ravenous faces wielding them were starving for a story.

“Have you been recruited into the Evil League of Evil?”  It screamed at him, trying to claw away his mask, his hood, his identity.

“What is your motivation?”  It had him entirely surrounded.  There was no way to escape.

“Why are you doing this?”  His hand brushed across a familiar remote and he pressed the button before he could think to do otherwise.

A low humming filled the air, and the paparazzi froze in place, completely immobile.  Virgil let out a shaky sigh of relief before he noticed that the light on a video camera was still blinking, undeterred by petty human paralysis.  He swallowed.  Well, he’d have to make his position known at some point.

He pulled his shoulders back, brushed invasive claws off of him, and stared directly into the camera.  “You ask who I am and why I am doing this. I’m your worst nightmare.” Ah, yes, that sounded suitably sinister.  “I’m the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned.” Wait, shoot. Now he was just quoting Welcome to the Black Parade.  “I’m not doing this because I hate the Abled; I’m doing this because…” He chuckled, a dark, low sound. “Any fool could look around and see that society is broken.  The only problem is that society either doesn’t care or is too ignorant to see its own faults. I’m doing this to force all of you to look around and see what a mess you’ve become.”  He loomed forward, trying to come off as menacing, but vaguely feeling idiotic. “Make a change or I will force one upon you. I’ve stolen from your homes, your vaults, and your banks. There’s nowhere you can go that’s safe from me.  Don’t dismiss this warning. It’ll be your last.”

With that, he hauled back the remote in his hand and smashed the camera lens.  Petty? Absolutely. But that made for a much more dramatic exit than just slinking away.

 

The next day, Virgil was back in his lab, wearing a groove in the floor with his incessant pacing.  Obviously he couldn’t build the anti-powers ray. It would be awful. It was too inhumane to ever be created.

Was it though?  He switched directions, walking counter-clockwise around the room.  It wasn’t like he’d ever use it on a mass scale, just a few people to make an example of.  He thought back to an overheard conversation and scowled.  God knew that there were plenty of people who didn’t deserve to have powers, to think themselves above the rest.  It might do the world some good to see them knocked down a few pegs.  Besides, he wasn’t the one who wanted it, that was U. N. Owen.  The person who was literally ensuring he had a roof over his head.  Could he even refuse?

He did an about-face, walking clockwise.  Of course he could refuse.  His partner-in-crime would understand.  Cleansing someone’s blood… Virgil shuddered.  That would be the worst kind of torture.  He wouldn’t do it.  They could find another way.  He gave a short nod and sat down at his work bench, intent on coming up with some other villainous device.

He and the piece of blueprint paper before him gave each other blank looks.  Just come up with something else, Virgil. Not that hard.

But now that he knew _what_ the anti-powers ray had to do, the _how_ to build was far, far too easy.  He could see it so clearly in his mind.  He knew exactly how every single piece of the machine would fit together.  It was so elegant. So obvious. So beautiful. He tapped the eraser of his pencil against the blueprint paper.

It wouldn’t hurt just to sketch it out.

His hand moved almost of its own accord as he drew the design.  His pencil lead danced over the paper, a leaving dusty gray pathway in its wake.  He hunched over the draft, a small smile gracing his face as he carefully, lovingly brought his monster to life.  Copper tubing connected to the titanium case here while an electric pulse enhanced the abiletum’s natural cohesive properties.  The concentrated ray would shoot out here… and here! Here he could put the grounder. He plotted and designed and sketched until his hands were smeared with graphite and his wrist ached.

He sat back and looked at it.  It was horrifying. It was gorgeous.

It was feasible.

He swallowed, leg jiggling erratically as he tried to reason with himself.  He had done enough.  Time to stop.

But it was such a shame to let that work go to waste.  He rolled his wrist, trying to work the ache out.  Maybe he could just build a small model.  For posterity’s sake.

He knew, even as he got up to cut the copper tubing, that it wouldn’t just be a model.  He always had been weak.

But what was wrong with that?

He worked straight through the night and the day and the night after that.  He managed to catch snippets of sleep when he passed out at his station - or, in one harrowing instance, the soldering table - but for the most part, he didn’t stop.  He was in the state between awake and asleep where anything was possible. He pulled from his dreams; he forged a monster from the deepest recesses of his fevered mind.  He was an electric being, able to craft whatever he wanted and destroy the rest.

He cut and fixed and welded and designed and raged and adjusted and sighed and fought off exhaustion and fitted and hissed and created until his stomach grumbled and his hands shook. He couldn’t stop now though.  Now when he was so close.

He convinced himself that he didn’t hear the increasingly insistent knocking at his door.  He simply turned off the lights and his tools to grab a sip of water or a wink of sleep.  No other reason.  He convinced himself that there wasn’t anyone on the other side of the lab door calling softly to him.

“Kiddo?  You okay in there?”  It was nothing.

“Virgil, please admit us entrance.  You have been in the lab for a period of over thirty-six hours.”  No one was there.

“Lo, why isn’t he letting us in?”  They were fine.

“I’m sure he’s left by now, Patton.  Please do not fret.”  He was fine.

“Maybe he passed out in there!  Do you still have the key?” The door rattled on its hinges, but the padlock held firm.  He stilled momentarily, but focused on wiring the electromagnets.

“Virge?  Please let us in.”  His hands shook as he fitted gears together.  He was fine.

“Virgil?  I escorted Patton home to ensure that he would not… make a fuss if that is what you would prefer.  Would you allow me to enter now?” He was fine. He was doing this for his friends. Whatever worry they had now would be worth it so they could be happy later.

“Virgil?”  He was fine.

“Kiddo?”  He was fine.

“Virge?”  He was fine.

It was when he woke up for the third time - thankfully away from anything that would set him on fire this time - that he realized he was done.

Doctor Virgil von Frankenstein didn’t shout **“It’s alive!”** when he brought his monster to life.  He simply stared in awe and horror at his eldritch abomination.  The anti-powers ray sat before him, just as he had pictured it. Well, not exactly.  He hadn’t fathomed the ominous gleam of titanium and copper tubing, glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights.  He hadn’t imagined the soft, vengeful hum of the electromagnets, filling the air with a melodic threat. He couldn’t have known how it would fill him with pride - it was the most amazing thing he had ever created - and terror - how could he have built this disgusting thing?

It was at that moment, looking at the malevolent product of his mind, that he decided he could never use it.  He wasn’t the type of person who could strip the blood clean from someone’s body.  He hadn’t been pushed that far yet.

For the first time, he called U. N. Owen first.  The line rang once, twice, three times than picked up.

“Virgil.”  Static oozed out of the earpiece, leaving a cold trail against his skin.  “What a pleasant surprise. I hope you have good news for me.”

For a millisecond, Virgil’s anxiety kicked in.  He couldn’t do this.  He shouldn’t do this.  He would wreck everything doing this.

_For a long time… I didn’t care about anything._

Virgil closed his eyes.  “We can’t use it. It’s… it’s wrong.  I couldn’t take this from anyone.”

The voice was silent for a moment, static crackling ominously.

Virgil cringed and braced himself for the blowback, for the announcement that he was being cut off and turned into the police, for the searing rage.

“Okay.”  

Virgil blinked.  He had obviously had temporary hearing loss, combined with auditory hallucinations.  “For real?”

The voice colored itself with amusement.  “Yes, for real.”  The cold retracted back into the phone and Virgil was suddenly more aware of himself than ever.  “I trust you, Virgil.  As I hope you trust me.  If you say that it is inhumane, I may grumble a tad and point out that you are _technically_ a villain, but I understand.  We’re trying to make the world a better place for those without Abilities, and if you truly believe this is how we will accomplish our goal, I will comply.”

Tension released its grip on Virgil’s shoulders.  “I do. I really do.”

The static crackled in a way that somehow seemed to suggest a shrug.  “Okay then.”

Virgil found himself smiling at his partner-in-crime.  “Okay.”

“In that case, however,”  Static hissed and popped.  “You must go to the gala The Prince is hosting.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Go into the lion’s den.  Look at the fools who live their inane lives surrounded in comfort and privilege.  Remember what we’re fighting against. I’ll send two tickets for you, bring a date as cover.”

Virgil opened his mouth to protest, but the line clicked dead.

He flipped the phone closed and slid it into his pocket as he considered his beautiful, perfect, terrible machine.  It had taken him weeks to design and days to build. He had avoided sleep and sustenance, passing out three times. It was probably the best thing he would ever create.

_They're the best thing about me._

There was the rose again, caressing his sides.  Fear and joy climbed up his throat; he wasn’t sure if the cause was inside of or in front of him, but either way, he was infuriated.  He padded with controlled steps and reached out with shaking hands to grab a rubber mallet leaning against the wall.  He treaded back to the anti-powers ray, spinning the mallet in his hands to get a feel for the weight of it.

He hefted the mallet behind his shoulder.  Caramel-brown eyes and a playful comment about ice-cream flashed across Virgil’s mind.  Without hesitation, he brought the mallet down, denting the copper sides.  He hit it again and again and again, something deeper than terror and stronger than elation fueling his muscles until he stood in front of dozens of smashed pieces, sweat coating his trembling frame and a macabre thing halfway between a smile and a grimace splitting his face.

It wasn’t entirely destroyed; the craftsmanship was too good for that, but it was a near thing.  Virgil dragged the carcass into the back left corner and gently laid a sheet over it.

That was that then.

When he arrived back to his apartment that afternoon, two golden tickets to the gala were waiting for him in a creamy parchment envelope sitting incongruously on his pillow.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count keeps increasing??? Why.
> 
> I'll be on vacation next week, and I have no idea what the internet situation will be, so don't count on a chapter next Thursday. That being said, I've already started work on both chapters eleven and twelve, and I do believe you all will be very pleased ;)
> 
> I adore all of you lovely readers, commenters, and kudos-givers!
> 
> that being said,  
> ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO, COWARDS


	11. Local Prince Dude has a Name-Calling Kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few Trigger Warnings in this chapter:  
> Dub-con kissing - skip the part starting with "Her perfect lips" and pick back up at "Roman suddenly realized"  
> Mentions of blood throughout  
> Graphic depictions of a riot - skip the part starting with "Michael’s eyes widened." and start back up at "For a moment, everyone froze."  
> Non-graphic description of a wound - skip the paragraph starting with "Kaimi gingerly removed"

Missy was furious when she had found out what Roman had been doing.  Not that she told him, of course. He could see it in the set of her hips, how she pulled her shoulders back and puffed her lips out in a dramatic pout.  He knew that she was mad, and she knew that he knew that she was mad, but neither of them would acknowledge it. It was another one of those things that polluted the air in their penthouse, smearing filth into the fashionable white leather couches.

She was curled up on one of those couches when he came back from the capital, a weary ache burrowing into his bones.  When he saw her there, so small and delicate in her nest of pillows and blankets with a mug of tea clutched in her thin hands, his mind was so overwhelmed with emotion that he had simply elected to feel nothing.  She looked different in the darkness. The flickering lights from the muted television cast roaming shadows over her lovely face, turning it into something distant and foreign. She was deathly pale in the gloom, her loveliness diminished with the dying of the light.  The area around her eyes looked odd, as if she hadn’t pulled her skin on quite right.

She was subtle, demure, and an utter stranger.  She lived in the spotlight; outside of its blinding shine, Roman had no idea who she was.  She turned her head towards him, shadows obscuring her eyes until they were only dark pools in her fair skin.

“Welcome home, My Prince.”  Her voice was imbued with none of the warmth of her words.  It was like a typewriter had stamped them in the air; they simply hung, flat and expressionless.  “I… I was worried. You didn’t call and I was afraid that…” She drifted off and tilted her face so the flickering lights shone in the water rimming her blue eyes.  “Why didn’t you call me?”

Roman carefully sectioned off the corner of his mind yelling that he hadn’t wanted to, that he was afraid, that he had inadvertently developed an... _infatuation_ with someone else and couldn’t bear to see her, and buried it somewhere deep enough that it would be drowned out by the rest of his buzzing thoughts.  

The couches were as white and as awful as ever.  

He wanted to put a 101 Dalmatians poster on the wall.  

He was thinking about throwing some sort of fundraiser for UNABLED.

“I’m sorry, darling.  I was so intent on work that I-”

“I know.  I had to find out where the man I love was from the news, not from him.”

“Missy, I am so sorry, I…”  Roman trailed off, words crushed under his overwhelming guilt.  Only over the trip to the capital, not over- he couldn’t let himself think of the villain now, not with Missy so close.  For lack of anything else to do, he sat beside her, the couch squeaking slightly as it bent to accommodate his girth. She sighed and curled up beside him as he wrapped an arm around her.  He ducked his shoulder, as he always did, to allow her to rest her head on him.

“It’s okay, My Prince.”  She buried her face in him, words muffled.  “Just don’t… don’t scare me like that again.”

He knew his script; by this point, it was as easy as breathing.  “Fret not, my love.” He dropped a kiss to the crown of her head and tried to ignore the malcontent slithering its way through his ribs, winding around each one and squeezing until they felt like they would shatter.  “I vow it.”

She was already awake when his bleary eyes blinked open the next morning.  She smiled at him from her vanity, radiant in the early morning light, but all he could think of was another figure, silhouetted by a spotlight of moonbeams.  Anger flashed over her face, so quickly there and gone Roman was convinced that he had imagined it. She held up a delicate finger, indicating that he should wait for a moment, then commanding the person on the other end of her old rotary phone.  “Yes, the starlight plaza. All of Saturday night… It’s a fundraising gala… Excellent, thank you very much.” She turned to him with a blinding grin. “I have a surprise for you, my pet!”

Roman was suddenly wide awake.

She didn’t bother to wait for his response before barrling on with her grand announcement.  “I know that I haven’t been the most… supportive lately.” She grimaced delicately. “You can hardly blame me, what with that stunt of yours costing us your Old Spice sponsorship.”  She seemed to realize she was being counterproductive and digressed. “But I’ve decided that to show my support - and how much I love you - I’m going to help you out with your little crusade-”  Her delicate fingers made an odd twisting motion in the air, meant to indicate the fact that Roman was actually trying to do the right thing and help people in ways that didn’t involve causing several million dollars in property damage, and she giggled.  “By setting up that charity event: a gala!”

She waited, obviously expecting praise, and pouted when Roman couldn’t decide how to react.

“I know that’s a bit of a change in heart, but I love you dearly, My Prince.”  She sighed dramatically. “I’ll support you, no matter what. No how much of a burden it may be on me.”

Roman shifted on the bed, sitting up to look at Missy directly.  “A… gala?”

She shrugged.  “You need to make public appearances that aren’t just beating up another baddie once in a while, my darling.”  She turned back to her vanity mirror and began to power her button nose with an oversized pink puff. “We’ll donate the proceeds to that little shelter you keep sneaking off to, hm?”

Missy’s blue eyes watched Roman’s reflection as something cold seized hold of his chest, forcing him to sit up straighter.  His adam’s apple bobbed under his tawny skin as he struggled to speak. “That’s… a wonderful idea, honey.” His smile, camera-worthy as always, carved into his face.  “You truly are the world’s most magnificent woman.”

Missy let out a girlish giggle, pleased, as she applied another coat of red lipstick, peering into the mirror.  “And you, the most powerful man, My Prince.”

In the days from then to Friday, Missy hadn’t stopped the passive-aggressive tyrade.

“It was difficult, but I finally managed to persuade the local rotary club to come.  They weren't thrilled about it, especially since you were just denounced by so many important companies, but oh well."

"I get that you want to invite the director of UNABLED, but do you really want to invite all of those powerl- those people that live there too?  We're trying to make a good impression here, my love."

"If they hadn't discontinued your endorsement, I would get Gino's to cater, but I'll just come up with something else; don't worry."

"Don't fret about that nasty segment Channel 42 was running earlier, my heart.  I know it seems bad now, but I'm sure this'll all blow ever soon. As long as you don't make any more drastic moves without consulting me, that is."

On the bright side, he had at least managed to ensure that **Bake My Day** was catering.

“-y love, don’t you think that we should make sure that, even though they might be mad at you now, the -”  

Roman thought, vaguely, that Missy’s constant tirade was reminiscent of the perpetual buzzing of a bee.  It wasn’t until he tuned back into her rant that he realized, with some surprise, that she actually was just making a buzzing noise.  He turned to her, confused; she simply raised a haughty eyebrow, but even that was tempered by the amused curl to her lips.

She finally stopped buzzing.  “Okay, I get it. I sound like a bee.”  Laughter danced in her eyes.

“The actual buzzing may have something to do with it.”  Roman felt a smile tentatively take hold of him.

She giggled.  “Figured that I might as well give you what you want.”

“What I _want-”_  Roman scooped Missy up bridal style; she squealed in delight and wrapped her arms around his neck as he spun her around, laughing.  “-Is for my beautiful girlfriend to take a break.” He dropped a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll work yourself to death, honey.”

Her head was still bowed; he didn’t see the knowing smirk that took over it.  “No chance of that.” She murmured quietly. She lifted her head and smiled, as brightly as the sunrise.  “I will if you will, my love.” She wriggled from his arms and settled on the couch, patting the space next to her.  “Do you want to watch Frozen?”

Roman hesitated.  “I thought you said that movie was too kidd-ish for me.”

Missy rolled her eyes.  “We deserve a break, My Prince.  Besides, if you think you’re going to stop me from singing Let It Go, you’ve got another thing coming.”

The happiness that had tentatively alighted on Roman’s chest solidified, curling up and purring contentedly.  It was at moments like this that he remembered why he had been okay with it when his handler - before Missy had commandeered that job - had insisted that he get a love interest.  It was nice to have someone else, and Missy could be wonderful.

He settled on the couch next to her, lounging against the fashionable couch’s armrest; it dug into his back, but he ignored that in favor of humming along to the opening sequence.  Missy leaned against him, comically small as she rested on his chest.

Roman put forth his noblest effort to focus on the movie and Missy, he truly did.  His treacherous mind, however, strayed without his consent.

He made up for it with actions.  Thinking of a certain villain? No he wasn’t; he was stroking Missy’s hair.  Dealing with moral issues? No he wasn’t; he was singing Fixer Upper. Daydreaming about moon-gray eyes and biting wit and elegant fingers and fierce intelligence?  No he wasn’t; he was moving.

“Stop that,”  Missy murmured, placing her small hand on Roman’s bouncing leg.  

“Sorry,”  Roman apologized, now precariously unsure of what to focus on.  Without some sort of action, his thoughts were far too prone to wander.

Hans was just dousing the fire in Anna’s room when Missy spoke again.

“You’re obsessed with him.”  Missy sighed plantatively. She didn’t need to elaborate on who ‘ _him’_ was.  They both knew.  “I love you and I do everything for you, but you still won’t even give me the time of day.”  She lifted her head from his chest and peered at him. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly love me.”

Sometimes Roman wondered that too.  “Of course I do!” He cried nonetheless, shifting on the couch until they were both sitting up and staring each other down as Elsa struggled through a blizzard.

“Then why are you so distant?”  Missy demanded. “Why are you putting all the effort of holding this relationship together on me?  Why are you so fixated on all of those Powerlesses?”

“Don’t call them that!”  Roman snarled before he could stop himself.

Missy flinched back, raising her hands to her face to hide a triumphant smile.  “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t scare me.” Now he would comfort her and apologize and he would be safely under her thumb again.  Where he belonged.

She waited, but nothing happened.

As she peaked through her fingers, Roman rose, yanked his jacket on, and strode to the door, intent on finding somewhere where people didn’t make him feel guilty for trying to do the right thing.

“He’s afraid of you,”  Missy said softly, lowering her hands.  “They’re all afraid of you. Don’t you know that, my love?”

Roman froze in his tracks, a deer waiting for the hiss of a hunter’s bow.  He turned to see Missy stalking towards him, endless blue eyes cool and certain.  She stood on her tiptoes to gently pull the jacket back off of his shoulders, murmuring to him.  “Everyone out there acts kindly towards you because they’re afraid of you, or they want something.  They know how powerful you are, and they know what you can do for them.” She hung his jacket back on the hook and took his hand in both of hers, gently tracing a swirling pattern into his palm.  “I’m the only one who really knows you. You know that, don’t you” - Her eyes snapped up to meet his - “Roman?”

Her perfect lips curled into a coquettish smile at the pleasurable shiver that ran down his spine at the rare treat of hearing his name.  “I’m all that you need.” She led him back to the couch and straddled him, punctuating her words with delicate kisses. “You know that, don’t you, _Roman?”_

His hands, pre-programmed with years of muscle memory, moved to rest on her impossibly thin waist.  “Tell me, Roman. Tell me.”

His lips, pre-programmed with years of muscle memory, parted.  “You’re all that I need.”

She purred with pleasure and pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck.  “And how much do you love me?”

Roman knew this script by heart.   _More than anything,_ he would say, and she would reward him in a… variety of ways before stopping and asking.   _But what does that mean?_  She would bat her dark eyelashes and look small and delicate, reminding him of how lucky he was to have her, how brave she was to stay by his side.   _That I would do anything for you, my love._  He would respond, and mean it everytime.  She would sigh and look lovesick and tell him _I love you too, My Prince._  Then she would take his hand and lead him back to their bedroom and smile. _Here, let me show you._

He was suddenly aware of how strong Missy’s perfume was.  It made his head spin, his knees feel weak; even if he didn’t have super senses, it would’ve been cloying. He could feel the heat radiating off of her body, burning him.  The familiar weight of her settled in his lap; he was used to it in the same way that you got used to a constant ache. It didn't bother you until you stopped to notice it again. His fingers picked out and chafed against every individual strand of cotton in her thin white t-shirt.  He could hear the blood rushing through her body, the rapid beat of her heart as it picked up its pace in heady anticipation. His hands trembled against the solidness of her, the way he couldn’t ignore her presence. She was everywhere. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and a trace of her was still there. He was suffocating under the taste of her saccharine strawberry lip gloss. He felt a pressure at the back of his neck and realized that Missy’s fingers were fisted in the fine hair of his nape.

“My love?”

Roman suddenly realized he had waited too long to reply.  His brain kicked back into motion. “I need to go.”

“What?”

But Roman was already gently lifting Missy off of him.  “I’m sorry, Missy, I… I need to go.”

She was deposited on the couch with a squeak of surprise, but by the time she was composed enough to formulate a protest, he was gone.

 

Patton buzzed around the kitchen, sending up puffs of sweet-smelling flour in his wake.  That gala was tomorrow, and for some reason, he had been contracted to do the catering, not that he was complaining.  Baking was the one thing he knew he could do. Baking was his niche.

His nimble fingers pinched together balls of dough, folded pastries, and painstakingly crafted delicate spun sugar decorations.  His soft humming stirred the still silence of the bakery at two o'clock. It was the lull between the lunchtime rush and the influx of kiddos that came in for a treat after school; seeing all the little ones light up when he handed them a cookie or a cupcake made it his second favorite part of the day.

His first was, of course, when he closed the doors at seven, right on time for Logan to come by and walk him home.  Patton treasured every moment he spent walking with the astronomer through the cool afternoon air, at times talking about anything and everything that they would think of, but just as often meandering along in companionable silence.  They were simply content to be together. Sometimes Virgil would join them, and those were the times Patton felt so happy he felt that he could burst. He would hum slightly, smiling when Virgil came in with a lower harmony. Logan would roll his eyes, but the corners of his mouth would turn up slightly.  Sometimes he would recite a poem the melody made him think of, or, on one very special occasion, whistle along.

Soon, however, their walk home would end, no matter how Patton dragged his feet.  They would eventually arrive at his doorstep.

“Goodnight, Patton.”  Logan would say, looking beautiful in the golden afternoon light.  “I hope you rest well in order for maximum efficiency tomorrow.”

“Sweet dreams to you too, Lo.”  Patton would fiddle with his keys, hoping for a moment longer; darting looks up at Logan from under his eyelashes.  He never could shake the fantasy that on one of those walks home, as they stood on his doorstep, Logan would simply lean forward and kiss him.  After that, Logan wouldn’t need to walk him home because they (and Virgil!) would simply make a home together.

But he never did.  It was probably for the best anyway; it would be kinda awkward if they kissed with Virgil standing right there.

A timer beeped, startling Patton from his daydream.  He looked down to see that he had overmixed the cupcake batter.  They’d be too tough to serve now. He sighed. “That could’ve gone _batter.”_  He let out a small giggle at his own joke; he might as well enjoy it if no one else would.

He slid a tray of perfectly golden-brown mini apple tarts out of the oven and gently set them down on the counter before dumping out the ruined batter.  He’d have to start from scratch.

He continued to hum as he worked, filling the otherwise empty bakery with a soft melody.  He didn’t like the silence this part of the day brought. Patton never had liked being alone.  He knew that it made him clingy and annoying, but his friends were good enough to never bring it up.  Still, the quiet that this part of the day brought was disconcerting, especially when compared to the usual hubbub of Bake My Day.

His khakis scraped against his skin as he bustled around the kitchen, deftly cracking eggs and pouring flour into an industrial mixer.  The pants had felt perfectly comfortable that morning, but now he found himself wishing for the swing of a skirt around his calves.

It was like that with him sometimes.  The way he felt, the gender he was, could change as quickly as his blueberry muffins sold out.  At times, he wasn’t even sure ‘he’ was the right pronoun. It was just the easiest. People looked at him and saw a man.  They saw someone who could potentially be anyone and assigned him the little box that seemed to work best. Patton was messy and complicated and difficult, but he just didn’t know how to deal with disappointing people when he didn’t fit.  So he smiled and went along with ‘he/him’ and tried to ignore the voice that said he was living a lie.

Because he wasn’t, not really.  ‘He/him’ wasn’t _wrong,_ exactly.  It just wasn’t right.  It felt like an old, worn pair of jeans that fit okay but were just slightly too long.  It was fine for the most part until he looked down and saw that the hems were tattered and dirty, that he had been stepping on the edges until filth clung to him and his edges frayed and anyone who looked closely enough could see that something wasn’t right.

Patton had no idea what was right.  He (She? They? Those didn’t fit either, like a pair of jeans that were too tight and constricting.) just knew that it was easier and better for everyone involved if he (Xe?  Ze? Those felt like jeans far too short and skinny, overly revealing and ostentatious.) could be what they wanted him to be.

Patton scowled and shook his head, dislodging his errant thoughts.  It really wasn’t so bad, not unless he thought about it. He padded into the front room of his _pat_ -isserie (and giggled) to turn on the TV.  That was enough of the quiet for now.

He let the buzz of the talking heads fill his mind like a mindless pop song as he put the fresh batch of lemon cupcakes - perfectly mixed this time - into the oven.  The media was kicking up a fuss about that new villain. Apparently he had ambushed a group of paparazzi and paralyzed them to steal one of their cameras and deliver a rant on how he was going to change society, by choice or by force.  Patton personally didn’t think that sounded so bad. He would appreciate his windows getting smashed less. Plus, Virgil might lose some of the tension that always crouched across his shoulders like a hungry wildcat. The kiddo needed to let the weight of the world roll off of him; he always had thought it was his job to fix everything.

Patton deeply breathed in the bright smell of lemon and let it out in short, satisfied sigh.  He didn’t rest, however, instead immediately pulling out a double broiler and some bricks of white chocolate.  He needed to have the white chocolate cream cheese frosting done by the time the cupcakes hit the cooling rack.

The audio changed to footage of some fight as he put a pot of water on the stove to boil and placed the broiler on top of it to heat.  He bustled around his kitchen, pulling out cream cheese and powdered sugar and vanilla extract.

It wasn’t until he actually stopped to tune into the noise barging in from the next room that he realized the shouts and screams he was hearing weren’t just ricocheting off from the television.  Just a few blocks away, in the heart of downtown and rapidly approaching, a riot had broken out.

 

Roman wasn’t sure why his feet refused to take him any further.  He stood on the jagged sidewalk, looking at the gray door that would take him inside the shelter, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to move.  For lack of anything better to do, he stared at the peeling paint on the building’s exterior.

Titillating.  

He wondered vaguely if the acronym for the United Nationally Across Boundaries in Loving Every Denizen homeless shelter was intentional or just a cruel twist of fate.  People weren’t that awful to the Unabled, were they?

The memory of the people inside the shelter and a cashier demanding to see what was inside of their grocery cart flashed through his mind.  Malcontent wormed through him. Maybe they were.

He dithered on the broken pavement, mind as active as his body was still.  This was ridiculous. He needed to go inside. It wasn’t a Thursday, but he was sure they’d be happy to see him as he continued their story.  Of course they’d be happy to see him. They liked him here; they-

_They’re afraid of you_

It made sense.  Roman swallowed down a rapidly forming lump in his throat.  People always changed when they talked to him. Talyn, so casual with the donkey and so formal with him.  Journalists, who never saw him as anything other than a hot new scoop. His fans, who were in love with The Prince.  He wondered if any of them even knew who Roman Garcia even was.

He turned away from the door, but hung for a moment, suspended in limbo.  He didn’t want to go back to the penthouse now. To that place that was supposed to feel like home but instead stifled him with its perfect, clinical white.

He spied a low-slung, crumbling wall of gray concrete that partly enclosed the crumbling courtyard of gray concrete.  It was a slumped over, miserable thing that seemed to serve no real purpose other than to stand there and fail to actually resolve any issue.  

What was it the villain had said?  “Big mood,” Roman muttered.

He trudged over, sending loose rocks skittering with a faint whisper that was as clear as a gunshot to his hearing.  He threw himself dramatically down on the wall to be in like company. The wall cracked under him with a grating snap.

Roman scowled, kicking his feet through the afternoon air.

The thing with his name shouldn’t have irritated him as much as it did.  “What’s in a name?” He groused to himself. “That which we call a rose and all that jazz.”  It was just that… he barely ever heard it. He had always assumed that his fame was _his fame._  That Roman Garcia was just as much of a household name as The Prince.  Which was completely ludicrous.

Because he was The Prince.  He was being ridiculous. There was no separating Roman Garcia and The Prince because they were the same person.  He was The Prince as much, if not more, than he was Roman. He was a hero, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

That was true, but so was the fact that introducing himself to Patton was the first time he had said his name in four years.

He stared at the space between his legs with blurred vision and watched as drops of water stained the cracked concrete.

"Hey, Roman."  Thomas's voice interrupted the hero's darkening thoughts. "What's up?"

Roman turned to see Thomas plopping down on the wall next to him.  The hero roughly wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and attempted a smile.  He failed miserably. "You know who I am, don't you, Thomas?"

His smile faded, but the warmth in his eyes stayed.  "Yeah, I do."

"Then why aren't you... afraid of me?"

Thomas chuckled. "It's kinda hard to fear the guy who comes in here every Thursday to tell the kids a story."  He bumped shoulders with Roman playfully. "Loved the latest installment by the way. The King and the Sorcerer having to work together to escape from the dragon's cave? Amazing."  They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Thomas spoke again. " You know the teens keep hampering for them to get together." He hummed, his Ability calming the flush that reddened Roman's cheeks.  "Art imitates life, huh?"

“It’s not that easy,”  Roman lamented. “It just… it could never happen.”

“Is it because of… Missy?”

A sharp pang shot through Roman.  “Among other things.”

“Look, Roman,”  Thomas sighed. “I’ll admit that I have no idea what’s going on in your life.  You’re kinda an icon, and I don’t know what that must be like.” He turned to Roman, oddly intent.  “I know your life is probably crazy and I don’t know what those ‘other things’ are and you are probably frazzled over the Savior or whatever they’re calling that new villain, but… if you’re not happy, it might be time to change something.”

“You say that like I could.”  Roman picked at a corner of the wall, breaking away concrete as easily as anyone else could pick apart tufts of cotton.

“You can.”  Thomas placed a comforting hand on his back.  “Besides-” His smile turned sly. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Roman pushed down the hope that threatened to swell up in his throat.

“Come on.”  Thomas grabbed his hand and led him to the shelter door.  “I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you.”

Roman found himself wanting to believe that.  “Okay,” He agreed, happiness flickering at the corner of his lips.  His step faltered slightly as he neared the door; he could’ve sworn he heard the sounds of a fight breaking out.

That thought, however, was swept from his head as Thomas opened the door.  Roman halted in his tracks.

He was here.  The clever, beautiful villain.

“Princ-”  He cut himself with a quick glance at Thomas, who was grinning like a new Steven Bomb had just been released.  “Roman. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’ve been visiting every Thursday, Johnny Dep-pressing.”

The villain’s hand flexed at his side.  He was thinking of roses again. “Oh.”

Roman echoed him.  “Oh.”

Thomas looked back and forth at the two of them, simply standing and staring at each other.  “Oh, well, look at my wrist, I gotta…”

Neither hero nor villain paid him any mind.

“Wow, okay, bye, guys.”  Thomas edged away before any of the romantic tension could infect him.

“Do you need to… “  Roman gestured to the shelter behind them vaguely.

“No, I, uhh, I just needed to drop some stuff off for Patton and I already did that, so…”  The villain trailed off awkwardly, plucking at a loose thread on his hoodie.

A hesitance settled over the two of them, neither quite sure what to say.

“So,”  Roman started, tapping his fingers against his thigh.  “I was thinking-” He paused, unsure of what he needed to say.

“Ah.”  A smirk slowly appeared on the villain’s pink lips, loosening a knot in Roman’s chest he hadn’t even known was there.  “I get it. It can be hard trying things for the first time.”

“Watch it, Sweeny Toddler.”  Roman felt the corners of his mouth curl up in response.  Before he could stop himself, he spoke. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“The endless void.”  The villain responded immediately.  “Unless… you had somewhere more specific in mind.”  His voice and his gaze trailed off, dropping to the floor as he picked at the skin on the side of his thumb nail.

“Yeah, actually.”  Roman held the door open for the villain and gestured him through.  “I do.”

After a trek up an _actual mountain_ -

“It’s less than a mile up a gravel path, villain.  Try to keep up.”

“I’m wearing black skinny jeans!”  

“...I noticed.”  

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Momentary silence, broken by the villain’s huffs.

“What, do you need a piggy-back ride?”

“I don’t care if you’re invincible or not; I will literally murder you.”

\- the foes finally emerged in a public park, rendered into a dreamy vista by the lazy pre-sunset light that cast an amber glow over the twisting trees and slightly overgrown grass, stretching over the cliffside.

Hero and villain settled on a park bench before Roman gestured to the sweeping landscape in front of them with a tilt of his head.

“Look.”

A pale orange sunset, interspersed with dramatic strokes of pink and purple, painted the sky.  Where the vivid hues met navy blue, the stars slowly blinked awake, looking down in curiosity at the humans below.  The cliff afforded the hero and villain the perfect view of New Psyche; they watched with a breathless wonder as the silver shimmer of street lights flickered to life, stretching from the shelter below them to as far as the villain could see.

“This view would be romantic for anyone else.”  The villain commented. If Roman couldn’t hear the spike in his heartbeat, he would’ve thought he was being venomous.  He was, however, slowly learning the nuances of the villain.

He adored every single one of them.

“Good thing I’m immune then.”  Roman faked a yawn, stretching and over-casually dropping an arm around the purple-haired man.

“Immune?”  The villain arched a dramatic eyebrow.  “To what, a romantic view and a cliffside chat with your mortal nemesis?”

“Yup!”  Roman said, popping the ‘p’.  “I am feeling absolutely nothing.”

“Is that right?”

“You’re so not my type, Bill Sikes-out.  I usually go for the less tall, darkling, and handsome.”  His arm burned where it rested around the villain’s shoulders.  He expected at every moment for the villain to go off on him, screaming and yelling about how terrible he was and how he was doing the world a favor by getting rid of him.

He didn’t.

“I’m not _your_ type, Princey?”  The villain gingerly slid closer on the bench until he could feel the heat radiating off of the other man.  “You’re not my type. If I wanted boisterous and cheesy, I’d go watch Legally Blonde.”

“Elle Woods is a national treasure, Warner Huntington the Turd.”

“Like I said.”  The villain ignored him.  “Not my type. Sassy, determined, and handsome?  Too irritating. I’d gouge my eyes out within a week of having to look at you.”

“Then we are in concurrence?”  Roman played with the purple hair at the nape of his companion’s neck.

“I do hate to agree with you, but yes.”  The villain tentatively rested his left hand hand on Roman’s knee.

Roman sighed melodramatically.  “What a waste of a lovely night.”  His hand dropped down to rest on his companion’s shoulder.

“Such a shame it’s just you and me up here, Princey.”  The villain reached up and gingerly rested the fingertips of his right hand against the hero’s.  “I should’ve brought Patton.”

Roman squawked indignantly as the villain stifled a snicker.  “I’ll have you know I make an excellent romantic companion.” He laced their fingers together for the sole purpose of proving his point.

The villain snorted.  “Doubtful.” He shifted closer to Roman for comfort’s sake only.  They fit perfectly. “But what I meant was that I’ve been trying to set up Patton and our friend Logan for ages now.  They’re just too stubborn to realize that they’d be perfect together.”

Roman couldn’t think of any other duos like that.

“You have more than one friend?”  He gasped dramatically. “But doesn’t that betray your misanthropic stance, Heath _en_ -cliff?”

“That one didn’t even make sense.”

Roman wasn’t sure how to explain that the smell of the other man’s hair was making it pleasantly hard to think.  “Yes it did.”

The villain just rolled his eyes.  “Did you honestly think that my social circle consisted of one friend and one…”  He hesitated, running through an endless list of titles to find that none fit. “Nemesis?”

“Do forgive me, sunshine.  I completely discounted your natural jolly disposition.”

The villain let out a soft, benin snort.  “Still better off that you. You’ve got, what?  One girlfriend and one nemesis?”

“And a horse!” He knew he was in his civilian disguise and sitting down, but that didn’t stop Roman from striking a classical hero pose.

“Oh, forgive me.”   The villain sharpened his tongue and his amusement.  “The horse is obviously the most important part of this equation.”

Roman mentally debated the benefits of stating that, yes, the horse often was a prefered companion, but decided that was a bit too heavy for their first… cliffside talk while watching the sunset and not actively trying to murder each other.  “Can’t complete the prince aesthetic without him!”

The villain scoffed.

“Aesthetics are important!”  Roman protested. “A prince has got to slay.”  Missy always was telling him appearances were everything.

“Ah, yes.”  The villain nodded sagely.  “When I first embarked on my life of crime, my main motivation was the incredible emo villain persona I would be able to adapt.”

Roman laughed.  “Something makes me think that you were already rocking the emo vibe before.”  He ran an appreciative eye over his companion’s ripped black skinny jeans and oversized patchwork purple hoodie.

It was odd, how easily Roman could converse with his companion.  He didn’t feel like he had to sensor himself or flatter the other.  He tried, with the doublethink he had long since mastered, to convince himself that it was simply because he didn’t care what the emo thought, but he knew that it wasn’t true.  He wanted to know what he thought about anything and everything. He wanted to hear his companion talk, ramble and rant, or snark and sneer, or laugh and lecture. He wanted to sit back and drink in a voice that tasted like chocolate.  He wanted to debate him and agree with him and banter with him and softly murmur to him as his eyes drifted closed at night.

Roman was, despite his best efforts, obsessed.  He loved it. He hated it. It terrified him. It wasn’t a big deal, just a silly obsession.

It felt like more than that.

With Missy, he was always on his toes, afraid to say or even think the wrong thing, but here, he felt like he could breathe freely.  

Here, he didn’t have to be anyone else, not with -

Roman realized with a start that he didn’t know his companion’s name.  “What is your name anyway?”

The villain demurred, a seemingly uncharacteristic gesture.  Maybe this silly obsession would simply go away with increased exposure.  Roman wasn’t sure why that theory didn’t sit well with him.

“Well, it’s actually Nunya.”

“Nunya?  That’s… unusual.”

The villain shrugged.  “Well, that’s just a nickname.”  Roman was confused to see a grin forming.  “It’s short for nunya business.” The villain futilely fought to keep a straight face.

Roman stared into the distance with the long-suffering expression of a man distraught with his own inane habits.  “I literally cannot believe I just fell for that.”

The villain surrendered, throwing back his head and laughing, a full and unabashed display of glee.  “I was _not_ expecting that to work!”

Roman felt something in his chest he hadn’t even realized was displaced settle into position as he listened to that wild laugh.  Looked like the obsession was in it for the long-haul then. “Haha, yuck it up, Charlie Frown.”

The villain calmed slightly, but a hint of laughter lingered in the set of his lips.

“Come on though, what is it?”  Roman wheeled, leaning into his companion.

“Still Nunya.”

“What’s a matter, Blah La Land?  Don’t trust me?”

The villain stiffened under his arm.  His teeth worked his bottom lip until his mouth opened and a single word fell out.  “No.”

“Oh.”  Roman stilled, leaning back against the bench.  He moved his arm, as if to take it from around the villain’s shoulders, but the emo just tightened their laced fingers.

“I think they’ve started calling me ‘The Savior’ though.”

A tentative huff of air that could’ve passed for a laugh if either of them squinted escaped Roman.  “Why?”

“I paralyzed a group of paparazzi, grabbed a video camera, and started a dramatic rendition of Welcome to the Black Parade.”

“What!?”  Roman squawked.

“Well,”  The villain conceded.  “Technically I only quoted a line, but they seemed to pick up on that.”

The paralysis of a group of innocen- nonagressiv- _paparazzi_ seemed like the more important factor in this scenario, but Roman chose not to aggravate the still-fragile peace that settled between the two of them.

“That’s dumb,”  He proclaimed. “Your name is obviously Patrick Lump.”

“No.”

“Pete Wentz-to-cry?”

“Heck no.”

“J. D-lightful then.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Ms. Don’t Lovett?”

“That’s your second Sweeny Todd reference today.  Get some new material, Princey.”

“Volde-snore-t.  Definitely”

“Definitely the worst one yet,”  The villain snarked even as he lifted a hand to hide the smile that shone in his eyes.

“Gorgeous,”  Roman heard someone whisper reverently.  It took a moment for him to realize that it had been him.

The heat radiating off of the man under his arm intensified, lighting up Roman’s nerves as his super senses greedily absorbed everything about the emo that they could.

“No, I think it’d be kinda weird if the media started calling me that.”  The villain stammered.

“Ha!”  Roman blustered, trying to hide his own flush.  “Your face is so red behind that white makeup.”

“Shut up, Princey.”  The heat intensified until Roman could practically feel it in every fiber of his Abled being.

Roman licked his lips, tongue rasping against their dryness.  “It… kinda looks like you’re feeling nothing too.” His voice shook slightly in the silence that stretched between them.

The villain started twisting the edges of his sleeves around his hands.  Roman mourned the loss of the hand on his knee. When the villain finally spoke, it was so soft that, even with his enhanced hearing, Roman had to lean forward to make sure what he was hearing was real.  “It could be less than nothing.”

Something in Roman’s chest started to glow.  He leaned back, letting this tremulous and tender feeling grow.  “Good to know.”

They sat together in silence, watching as the sun began to wind down for the night.

“Just how far can you see, Princey?”  The villain murmured softly, afraid to break the silence.

“Far enough to see the Earth curve.”

“And past that?”

“Space.”

Roman didn’t bother to look down at New Psyche beneath him, although if he did, he would’ve realized that a riot had just ended.  Everything he wanted to see was beside and above him.

“I used to want to go there,”  The villain confessed, resting his head on the hero’s shoulder, looking up at the sleepily blinking stars above them.  His purple hair tickled the hero’s face; he couldn’t help but tilt his own head into it, savoring the softness and the smell of raspberries.  “I figured that if Earth was so bad, maybe they’d like me on Mars.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,”   The villain sighed.  “There was a time when I really wanted to get into the NASA engineering program - that’s actually why I became an engineer in the first place.  I thought that, I don’t know, maybe if I was good enough they’d ignore the fact that I’m Powerless.”

“Hey!”  Roman surprised them both with the fervor in his voice.  “Don’t call yourself that,” He said, softening his volume, but keeping the steel.  “You’re not… You’re just not.”

“Princey, what the he-”

 _“Ah!_ _Escúchame_ _, guapo.”_  Roman cut him off.  “You are absolutely brilliant.  Infuriating? Yes. A constant thorn in my side?   _Absolutalmente_ .  Terrible and challenging and more than my match in every way?   _Claro que sí._  But you are brilliant, and if NASA can’t see past some dumb thing like whether or not you have an Ability, that’s their loss. _Punto.”_

“I- I know that, Roman.”  The villain retaliated, voice shaking slightly.  “I’m not ashamed of who I am. I just know that that’s always going to be the first thing people see about me.  I’m not _me_ to everyone else.  I’m just someone they think they understand because they know one thing about me.”

Roman thought, with a bitter pang, that the two of them might have more in common than previously anticipated.

A silence settled between the two of them, as palatable as the sweet smell of pine that filed the air.

“Does it ever get overwhelming?”  The villain asked softly. “Being able to see… all of it?”  He waved a hand, trying to amalgamate the Earth below them, the heavens above them, the sounds and the sights and the smells and the textures, into a single gesture.

Roman shrugged.  “I presented my Abilities at birth.  It’s the only thing I’ve ever known.”

For some reason, melancholy passed over the villain’s face.  “You really are the hero through and through.”

Panic shot through Roman.  “I…” His words came out strangled.  “It is a lot though. Sometimes.” His voice dropped between the slats of the wooden park bench and landed on the ground.  “I do this thing when I’m in crowds but not in front of them, you know?” He ran a finger across the rough denim of his jeans.  “It’s weird, but if I focus on a certain texture or a smell or a movement it can… calm me down. Keep me from getting overwhelmed.”  He heaved a breath and tilted his head back until the heavens were in his eyes. Galaxies and novas and dying stars and asteroids and far-off plants swirled through his vision in a dazzling kaleidoscope of light and dark.  They were so tiny compared to the rest of the universe - it petrified him and filled him with a joy beyond measure. “There’s just so much out there.”

The villain looked at him silently, considering roses and stardust and the impossibility of what was happening.  They were playing with fire, but not even the knowledge that he’d get burned could stop him from longing for the dancing flames.

“Do you still want to go there?”  The hero rumbled, turning his face back toward his companion.

“No.”  The villain shook his head, a lock of violet hair falling in front of his face as steel entered into his voice.  “I have things to do here.”

The lock of hair taunted Roman.  He reached out and ever so slowly tucked it back into place.  “You’ll give yourself a headache doing that.” His hand continued its over the villain’s face, gently running his fingers along his companion’s jawline.  It was so sharp he almost thought that if he could get cut, his fingers would come away wet with scarlet. He kept them there for a moment, realizing with interest that he could feel the villain’s blood vessels expand, a soft increase in pressure.

“I’ve already got a headache.  His name is Roman Garcia.” The villain smiled, as breathtaking as the stars.

A shiver slid down Roman’s spine at the sound of his name on the other man’s lips.  “And mine is John Bad-ner.”

“That one sucks too.”

Roman pulled his hand away, and the two of them watched as the sun finally slipped below the horizon.  Roman squeezed their interwoven fingers, and, after a nerve-wracking moment, his companion squeezed back.

Roman could hear the other man’s heart thudding in his chest.  Or was that his own pulse? Neither, he realized with a start. It was both of their hearts, beating perfectly in sync.  

For some reason, the sound made heat prick at Roman’s eyes and his chest feel tighter.

It was late.  Missy was waiting.  He didn’t need to be here.  He wasn’t _supposed_ to be here, arm around his nemesis as they watched the sunset and snarkily flirted and tentatively felt out this strange connection.

“I’ve got to go.”  Roman made no motion to move.

The villain tapped his fingers on their conjoined hands.  “Don’t forget your hand, Princey.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to jail you.”

The villain rolled his eyes, pulled his hand out of Roman’s, and turned to face the hero fully.  He leaned forward; for one dizzying moment, Roman was sure he would kiss him, but the purple-haired man just touched their foreheads together and smirked.  “You’ve got to catch me first.”

 

Two hours before sunset, Kaimi was walking through downtown back to Logan’s apartment with a tote full of groceries.  He had offered to get them, but she had waved him off. “Nah, I got it. You just chill and read And Then There Were None for the millionth time.”  He had smiled gratefully and settled back onto the couch with a hot pad on his back. Neither of them acknowledged it, but it was apparent he having another bad back pain day.  He wouldn’t have been able to get the groceries even if she hadn’t volunteered.

Besides, it felt good to escape the apartment for a walk through the afternoon sunlight.  As grateful as she was to Logan for letting her stay with him while she balanced getting back on her feet with writing The Truth and generally trying not to panic over the fact that she had quit the best job she would ever get and completely wrecked her life, she hated the feeling of dependence that came with it.

So, she might as well go get the groceries.  She had always liked the little farmers market nearby anyway.

She strolled along, perfectly calm until she heard a gravelly voice come from behind her.  “I don’t get why you’re selling this junk here.”

She turned, curiosity and journalistic instincts taking over, to see a broad man in a Powered Citizens United Corp t-shirt arguing fiercely with the owner of a newstand.  In his hand was clutched a newspaper, so badly wrinkled that Kaimi could barely make out the title: **The Truth.**  A cold chill settled over her.

“Look, pal,”  The owner spat, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I sell what pays, okay? Back off.”

The broad man snorted crudely.  “C’mon, bud, there’s no reason for you to be selling that liberal hippy trash.”

“Excuse me?”  Kaimi turned to see a large black woman storming towards the stand.  “That paper is incredible! Look at junk the media is feeding us nowadays!”

“Back off, lady.”  Another person joined the fray.  “It’s just people kicking up a fuss over how things have always been because they’re too lazy to get up and work for their houses and jobs like the rest of us.”

“SHUT UP!”  Someone else demanded.

Before long, an entire group was clustered around the newstand, yelling and arguing over each other.  Kaimi found herself drawn into the chaos, pulled into the savage ferocity by the knowledge it was partly her fault.

“Well,” A piercing voice called out over the horde.  The masses briefly shifted enough for Kaimi to glimpse a familiar-looking woman.  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”  Another voice roared, intinced.  The rage intensified until the air crackled with electricity, as if a storm was about to break.

Across the square, a man with the Ability to sense danger stood up, abandoning his coffee on the wrought-iron patio table.  “Michael?” He addressed his husband as his shoulders scrunched uncomfortably together inside of his blue cardigan. “We need to go.”

Michael, a stocky man in a red hoodie with sewn-on patches, stopped twirling his spoon in his coffee via telekinesis and looked up.  “Jere-bear? What’s the-”

At that exact moment, someone - or several someones - physically flipped the newstand over.  Papers, tabloids, and magazines fluttered through the air as the stand toppled with a deafening crunch.

Michael’s eyes widened.  “Okay, yeah.”

As if the cracking of wood was the starting bell in a WWE match, fists started to fly.  Screams and savage laughter and swears fractured the air as more and more people either joined or were unwillingly pulled into the chaos.  The mob grew and swarmed until there wasn’t a place in town square that was safe.

A bus swerved to avoid the overturned news stand and wrapped around a light pole with a sickening shriek of metal on metal.  Coiling ropes of smoke clawed their way out from under the hood as the bus driver screamed at everyone to stay in their seats, don’t get caught up in the fighting.

Kaimi was buffeted around in the crowd, clutching her tote full of groceries to her chest like a shield.  Everywhere she turned, someone was fighting or destroying or vandalizing or screaming. The riot wasn’t a group of people anymore, it was a heaving, swarming, mindless monster.  Panic wrapped around her throat, strangling her. It ached so badly she didn't even realize she was screaming until she had to stop for breath. She curled in on herself, trying desperately not to make eye contact with the wild beasts around her, not to provoke anyone’s ire.  Her eyes were fogged with fear and smoke as the chaos reached a crescendo, people raging like a discordant marching band.

She didn’t even recognize the person in the blue polo until she almost ran into him.  “Patton?!”

Patton looked at her; she noticed with alarm that there was a bruise forming on one of his cheeks, painting it a grotesque purple.  “Kaimi Alvi? How do you -” He stopped, pieces of a puzzle falling into place. “Logan.”

“What are you doing here?”  She demanded, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him out of the way of two brawling men.  “It’s dangerous!”

“I could say the same to you!”  He cried, side stepping a small, elderly librarian-looking woman wielding a molotov cocktail.  He shrugged out of her grip and they ducked into a small enclave, momentarily shielded. “The riot spread to near my bakery; I had to leave.  I was trying to get to Logan or Virgil to see if they were okay!”

A nearby window shattered, glass sparkling in the air as it rained down, slicing through the mob’s clothes and skin.  Kaimi flinched. “We’ve got bigger concerns now. We just need to get out of here.”

Patton heaved a shaking breath.  “Right.”

They scanned the bedlam until Patton found a way that looked mostly clear.  “We’ve just got to get around that the bus, that fight and run.” He pointed the path out.

Kaimi nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  Patton grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “We’ll be okay, kiddo.  Just stick by me.”

They plunged into the crowd, and Kaimi found fear slithering up her spine.  She gripped the baker’s hand even tighter - later she would apologize profusely for her vice like grip - and raced through the mob.  She took an elbow to the eye, felt something scrape her leg, and heard Patton hiss in pain as he underwent a similar treatment.

She saw the edge of the crowd and felt hope swell inside of her.  They were almost there. They were going to make it.

They put on a final burst of speed, dodging screaming rioters and other people scrambling to get away when the bag of groceries was ripped out of her hands.  She instinctively let go of Patton to try to catch the produce before it hit the pavement; she realized her mistake too late. The crowd massed around her, cutting her off from the baker.  “Patton?” She turned in a circle, panic tightening its grip on her throat. “PATTON?” She screamed. “PATTON, WHERE ARE YOU?”

If she made it out of this riot alive, Logan was going to murder her.

The police arrived in a hurricane of sirens and tear gas, blinding her and ripping water from her eyes.  “GET ON THE GROUND!” Someone demanded, but most rioters didn’t obey, and those who did were trampled. A spray of gravel blasted her face, the grit scraping her skin.  Piercing shrieks deafened her ears, and her tongue was coated with the coppery tang of blood. Heat licked against her skin; she felt more than saw the burning car near her.

The mob was everywhere, jostling against her, throwing fists and vitriolic threats.  Her Ability was working in overdrive; she was bombarded with images of everyone who caught a glimpse of her in the bedlam of the mob.  Her mind's eye warred with her vision until she couldn't tell what was in front of her and what was to the side. Her breath started coming in shorter, shallower pants as images of enraged, frightened, livid, terrified, and vicious people tore through her mind.  She couldn't tell what was where or where she was or where Patton was or how she could escape or what she was actually seeing or what her Ability was picking up on.

She spared a moment to be grateful that her hijab hadn’t been ripped off in the chaos, but even that small miracle couldn't keep her calm.  So great was her hysteria that she didn’t even notice the Latina woman, dressed like a cowboy, dropping down from a skyscraper and landing in a crouch on top of the crumpled bus. She - and the rest of the mob - did, however, notice when the woman straightened up and fired three shots into the air.

For a moment, everyone froze.

The woman smirked.  “Y’all’re looking ‘bout as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full o’ rocking chairs.”

Kaimi took a moment to mentally process that colloquialism.

“I’d recommend everyone simmer down now,”  The woman continued, voice as sweet as honey and twice as viscous.  “I never miss and I don’t take kindly to people startin’ riots in my city.”

Someone called out what they were all thinking.  “Um, kiddo, don’t take this the wrong way, but… who are you?”  Kaimi turned and was relieved to see Patton standing behind her.

The woman narrowed her eyes, annoyed.  “I’m Calamity!”

The mob murmured in collective confusion.

The woman’s confidence slipped ever so slightly.  “Calamity? The cowgirl vigilante? Ability is that she never misses?”

The mob remained perplexed.

Calamity hissed in frustration.  “Ah, well, whatever.” She hefted her pistol and the crowd reared back in alarm.  “I’m sure you won’t forget me now.” She smirked. “Just calm down and I won’t have to use these.”

Someone contrarily broke another window.  As if that was some universally acknowledged signal, the mob began raging again.  Patton grabbed Kaimi. “We’ve got to go!” He shouted over the din. She nodded and they began to skitter along the edge of the street until several shots rang out; Kaimi felt something graze her shoulder.  

She cried out, letting go of Patton to clutch at her arm, pain weakening her knees as she buckled to the street.  The mob around her froze again, this time out of very valid fear.

Calamity lowered her smoking pistols.  “Look at what y’all made me do.” She surveyed the crowd and Kaimi thought she saw a look of guilt flash over the vigilante’s face for a millisecond as they made eye contact.  “Everyone get along now. Get back home and don’t even think ‘bout starting up this mess again.”

Patton knelt beside Kaimi as the fearful mob dispersed into scraggly patches.  "Kiddo, are you okay?"

Kaimi gingerly removed her hand from her arm and felt nausea rise in her throat as she saw her brown fingers, coated in scarlet.  "Oh, that's blood," She croaked woozily. Kaimi Alvi did not do blood.

Patton hissed in a breath through his teeth.  "Oh gosh, okay just..." His hands fluttered uncertainty around her before steading.  He gently leaned her against an overturned car and looked around as her hand clamped back over her wound.  "I'll see if I can find a first-aid kit. Do you have some sort of band-aid to put on that?"

"I do."  A sweet southern voice drawled as a pair of cowboy boots hit the pavement next to the reporter.  She and the baker followed a long pair of legs past a garish belt buckle and a fringed leather jacket to see Calamity pulling a red bandana out of her pocket.  "I got this, puddin'. You go find that kit."

Patton wavered, looking back and forth between the two women.  Kaimi have him a subtle nod.

"I'll be right back, kiddo."  He slowly detached himself, shooting concerned glances at the two as he hunted through the rubble.

Calamity took a moment to observe Kaimi. “Well, ain’t you just as pretty as a peach.”  She winked.

Kaimi cut her a glare, even as she felt her cheeks warm. “You literally just shot me and now you’re hitting on me?”

Calamity rolled her eyes, southern belle persona slipping for a moment. “They’re nonlethal jelly rounds.”  She knelt down and gestured at the reporter's hand, still gripping her wound. "I'd say I'm sorry that I hit you, Doll, but I meant to."

"Well that makes me feel much better."  Kaimi reluctantly removed her hand, carefully averting her eyes to avoid seeing scarlet again.

The vigilante shrugged unapologetically.  "Crowd was gettin' crazy as all get out. I had to let 'em know I meant business."  She tied her bandana around the reporter's arm with a surprising gentleness.

"But why me?"  Kaimi demanded, a tad petulantly.  The smell of iron put her in a foul mood.

Calamity snorted.  "Y'ain't special. I hit six others too."  She tied a final knot in the bandana then hesitated.  She reached through one of the smashed windows of the overturned car, looking for something.

Kaimi surveyed the wreckage and saw with some shock that six other people, interspersed with those who had been injured in the riot, were tending to gunshot wounds in the exact same place as hers: the outer edge of their left shoulder.  She swallowed, her throat dry as she took in the damage. "But I'm the only one you're helping."

The vigilante pulled her torso out of the car with a half-empty bottle of water in tow.  "I recognized you, Kaimi." She confessed. "Well, not when I shot you, but shortly ther’ after.  Here, lemme see your hand." She poured the water over Kaimi's bloodied hand, washing away the sticky red.  "Ya don't seem like you much care for blood."

Kaimi patted her hand dry.  "I don't."

The vigilante smirked, leaning back on her haunches.  "That lil’ stunt you pulled on live TV was a hoot ‘n a holla."

Kaimi groaned, leaning her head back against the car’s crumpled metal.  “I’m going to go down in history as the crazy reporter who lost it on the news.”

Something dark passed over the vigilante’s face.  “Better that than not be known at all.”

Kaimi arched an eyebrow as Calamity lit a cigarette and started sucking on it like it was her job.  "Those things will kill you, you know."

The vigilante looked at her, startled, before stubbing it out.  "I guess I’ll have to take you on a few dates before you come to my funeral.”

The wailing of a police siren cut Kaimi’s response off.

“Calamity!”  A woman lept out of a police cruiser and leveled a taser at the vigilante.  “You’re under arrest!”

Calamity lazily gave a two-fingered salute.  “Hey, Valerie. What’d I do this time?”

A nearby streetlight busted open, raining down sparks.  Valerie leveled the vigilante a look. “Shot her, for one,”  She deadpanned, gesturing at Kaimi’s bandaged shoulder.

“She’s cool with it, right, peach?”  Calamity purred at the reporter.

Kaimi glared.  “Decidedly not cool with it.”

Calamity sighed.  “Worth a shot.”

“Dad joke!”  Patton, still rummaging around for a first-aid kit, sang out.

“You’re under arrest!”  Valerie reiterated, brandishing her taser threateningly.

“I reckon,”  Calamity mused.  “That I just don’t feel very arrested.  ‘Sides, would you be talkin’ to The Prince like this?”

“Put your hands up and get on the ground!”  Valerie demanded.

Calamity stretched her hands in the air, but only to flex her biceps as she winked at a very unimpressed Kaimi.  “That’s my cue to get over yonder. I’ll be seein’ ya around, doll.” She flashed a grin at Kaimi and vaulted over a nearby car, making a getaway.

Kaimi fought against the warmth in her cheeks.  “I sincerely hope not,” She muttered rhetorically.

A few minutes later, Logan’s eyes widened in alarm as Patton and Kaimi, bruised, disheveled, and disoriented, staggered in through the door.  “What on Earth happened?” He demanded, hurling his copy of And Then There Were None away. He tried to get up, only to settle back down onto the sofa with a hiss of pain.  That didn’t stop him, however, from running a frantic gaze over them.

Kaimi smiled weakly.  “I lost the groceries.”

 

Roman felt like he was glowing on the walk back to his apartment.  The glow dulled, however, as proximity to his real life increased. He didn’t feel for the villain as he did for Missy, so he either didn’t love Missy or he was merely infatuated with the villain against his better judgement.

The latter was probably right.  Hopefully. Maybe. Please.

Because the former ringing true was something he didn’t know if he could bear.

Roman scowled and kicked his boot against the concrete pavement with a bit more force than necessary.  His foot formed a dent in the sidewalk as easily as if the asphalt was made of whipped cream. Roman blanched and quickly patted it back in place before anybody noticed.

It was as he was looking around guilty to see if anyone beared witness to his accident that he realized something was wrong.  He hadn’t crossed paths with anyone on his path back. New Psyche, typically teeming with a myriad of eccentric people, was almost deserted.  Only a few people, oddly muted under the flickering streetlights, slunk like rats between the looming skyscrapers, jutting into the sky like accusatory fingers.

The air hissed with power, as if a thunderstorm had just ended.

His pace picked up, pristine boots hitting the pavement in a steady patter.  His eyes darted around suspiciously. The cool night air wrapped around him, sliding against his skin like the flat face of a dagger.

Before he even entered the building, his ears picked up on Missy chatting on her old rotary phone.  “Yes, overnight shipping… solid gold, I won’t accept anything else… Good. See that it is.”

He reluctantly trudged up the many, many stairs to his penthouse (taking the elevator would’ve been quicker and there was no way that that was happening) and unlocked the door.

Missy threw her arms around Roman the instant he walked into the sterile white living room.  “My love, where were you? I was so worried! I saw the entire thing on the news, it was dreadful!  Why weren’t you there?”

“Missy, what are- what are you talking about?”  Roman gently pushed her back until she was barely clinging onto him.

She pouted her perfect lips and widened her blue eyes into a look of despondency.  “Look,” She commanded, gesturing at the TV.

A blandly handsome anchor - Kaimi Alvi had some sort of meltdown a few weeks ago - was solemnly reporting on the damage that a mob had wrecked on downtown, including several people in the ER.

The camera feed showed people screaming and shoving and fighting each other then faded to the remnants of the riot.  A bus was wrapped around a streetlamp; several local businesses had their windows smashed; broken glass and shredded metal littered the street.

“Where were you?”  She asked again. Roman couldn’t respond, struck mute with horror.

The footage switched again, this time showing pictures of those injured in the riot.  Roman felt bile rise in his throat as he took in broken limbs and trampled extremities and cuts and burns and _gunshot wounds_ and - oh.  He recognized that person.

The newscast settled on a picture of Patton Morales, a bruise marring his lovely face as he huddled behind an overturned car; fear was etched into every line of his body as he tended to an injured woman whose face was blocked from view.

“Oh, My Prince,”  Missy sighed, her breath coming out in an overwhelmingly saccharine puff that spread across Roman’s face.  “What have you done?”

Guilt sunk its teeth into him.  It was _his_ job to keep peace in New Psyche.  The names etched over his heart felt like they were burning.  ‘Patton Morales’ could’ve been added to the list so easily. He wanted to rip off his shirt and claw at the skin until it was gone, until the evidence of his sins were purged by blood.  

“My heart, why did you leave?”  Missy slid her arms from around his neck to his waist, nestling her head against the center of his chest.  “This never would have happened if you weren’t distracted. You could’ve stopped this.”

She was right.  As always, she was right.  She hunted in his mind for the deepest, darkest truths that he didn’t dare to confess and told them to him.

“Only because I love you.”  Missy murmured, looking at him with adoration shining in her brilliant blue eyes.  “I’d do anything for you, My Prince.”

Roman silently wrapped his arms around her.  How could he have been so selfish? No one cared about Roman Garcia.  He wasn’t important. Roman would never be his own person; he belonged to the world, to keeping it safe.  Missy was right. She always said she knew him better than anyone else because she truly did.

He was Missy’s.  He was the world’s.

He was The Prince.

“That’s right,”  She reassured him, gently cupping his face in her delicate hands.  “I know you. And I know that this villain isn’t good for you. He’s a distraction.  Look at what happened while you were off with him. People were hurt. A riot broke out.  You could’ve stopped all of this if you weren’t distracted.”

The Prince thought, in the hazy way that prevented anyone one clear notion from coming through that he had long since perfected, that the riot would’ve broken out either way, but that wasn’t important.  What was important was that he could’ve ended it sooner and stopped it easier.

“That’s right,”  Missy purred. “You know what you need to do.”

 _Find another way,_ he felt more than thought.  It was safer that way. The Prince wiped his mind into a blank slate and tucked his chin onto the top of Missy’s head.  It was an uncomfortable fit and his back ached from stooping over, but the pain gave him something else to focus on. Something to keep him from thinking.

He had learned some tricks after four years of being with someone Able to hear thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently waiting longer between updates means longer chapters; who'd have thought?
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who is supporting me on this story, no matter how. It means the world to me!
> 
> Also, I'm shoving my list of head cannons here as a refresher on each character:  
> Virgil  
> -trans  
> -not straight  
> -has anxiety and panic attacks  
> Logan  
> -race open to interpretation (it's only specified that he has dark eyes and black hair with tight curls)  
> -chronic back pain  
> -not straight  
> Patton  
> -gender-fluid (questioning pronouns and that's okay)  
> -not straight  
> -chubby  
> Roman  
> -hispanic  
> -not straight  
> -PTSD from his battles and being GASLIT ALL THE TIME @MISSY  
> -Abilities include: supersenses, superspeed, superstrength, and invincibility  
> Kaimi  
> -trans  
> -lesbian  
> -muslim  
> -middle eastern ethnicity  
> -Ability to see whoever is looking at her/an image of her  
> Calamity  
> -latina  
> -WLW  
> -Ability is that she never misses  
> Missy  
> -scientifically speaking, the worst  
> -Ability to read minds
> 
> I'll do my best to get the next chapter up on time (next Thursday), but it's the Gala chapter and you know what that means! (hahah, no you don't. you poor fools) I really want to make sure it's as good as I can make it.
> 
> As always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO
> 
> Thank you all so much!


	12. Local Friends Have a Wonderful Time and Nothing Bad Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few TWs for this chapter!  
> -Missy exhibiting possessive and abusive behavior throughout  
> -Mention of blood (skip the paragraphs starting with "He felt something hot" and "A painful smile")
> 
> Also, I'm going to go ahead and tell everyone how much I appreciate you all before the chapter because... well, you'll see. Love you!
> 
> Songs in this chapter:  
> Secret - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_AyjjBAV8c  
> So Close - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ad7ejBn3KSQ  
> Every Breath You Take - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TH_YbBHVF4g

Roman loved his tuxedo for the gala.  It was a shimmering golden affair that looked absolutely dashing with his sleek black bowtie.  He turned from side to side in front of the mirror, admiring the way the jacket stretched across his shoulders and complemented his trim waist.  The solid gold was a bit ostentatious, to be sure, but Roman always had loved to put on a show. Besides, he and Missy had already picked out complementary outfits.  They would match: he in his shining gold tuxedo and her in a scaled gold slip dress that slithered over her like a second skin.

He turned to the side and jauntily smoothed his shiny black lapels.  A handsome, giddy smile softened his face. He looked _good._  

“Are you really going to wear that bowtie, my love?”  Missy, wrapped in a thin cotton robe and leaning against the doorframe, remarked.

Roman hadn’t even heard her enter.  He puffed his chest out and tugged at the edges of the accessory proudly.  “Bowties are cool.”

Missy simply gave him a blank stare.  Roman deflated. “Yes, I am.”

She padded into the room, hips swaying as she looked around.  “My Prince, where’s that jacket I bought for you? I left it right on the bed.”

Roman blanched.  He had genuinely thought that atrocity was some sort of ironic throw pillow.  It was as if someone had taken his iconic Prince shirt, dyed it an eye-sore of a red, slapped tacky buttons on it where there was no need for buttons, vomited gold embroidery, and gave it a high-necked collar so stiff it defied all known laws of physics.  “That thing?”

She stretched her lips, already painted bright red, into a smile.  It looked as if she had studied diagrams of the world’s most perfect smiles and worked in front of a mirror for years to perfect the exact manner in which she exposed her teeth.  It was a display, not a feeling. “Yes, that thing.” Laughter danced in her eyes. “You didn’t think that you were going to wear _that,_ did you?”

He fiddled with the edge of the tuxedo jacket self-consciously.  “I really like it.”

“That’s not what I asked, my dearest.”

Roman worked his jaw.  He didn’t know if it was that Missy had always acted like this or that he was just now noticing how actual relationships worked, but he was getting sick of it.  “We already agreed on the gold, Missy.”

“Yes.”  She agreed with him idly, carelessly settling on the bed as she swayed her delicate feet through the air.  She was a drop of yellow against the sterile white of their bedspread; her brightness stung his eyes. “But I changed my mind.”

“But…”  Roman, unused to standing up to Missy, faltered.  “You agreed…”

“I did,”  She concured amiably, twirling a strand of golden hair around a petit finger, causing the sleeve of her robe to slip down.  “But now I’m going to wear a red dress and you’re going to wear that jacket.”

Roman heard her words as if through a fog, eyes riveted on Missy’s small wrist.  “My love, what happened?” He cried, dismay forgotten as he rushed to his fair maiden's aid in a movement quicker than the human eye could detect.   A bruise of sickening purple and yellow encircled her arm like a macabre bracelet. “Are you alright?” He tenderly cradled her hand.

“Oh, this?”  She leisurely ran two fingers over the bruise; it smeared under her touch - makeup.  “I’m fine, my sweetest love.” Her blue eyes wandered up to meet his. “But I’m not sure everyone else will believe that.”

It took Roman a minute to catch up.  “What are you saying?”

Her baby blue eyes held no hint of malice; that was the worst part of it all.  She held such warmth and love in her eyes that Roman struggled to reconcile her expression with her words.  She gently laid a hand on his arm. “I think that the jacket will look marvelous on you, my pet. It supports the Prince aesthetic we’ve got going.  After all-” She retracted her hand and tugged her sleeve down, hiding the fake bruise. “Appearances are everything, aren’t they?”

Roman starred into Missy’s eyes, the color of an endless summer day, and realized with a startling crash that there was a difference between love and habit.  He tried desperately to shove the thought from his mind, but it was too late. Missy’s face contorted with rage for a moment, almost too quick to register, before smoothing back into her usual sultry blankness.  (Roman had to admit that it was very impressive that Missy could look seductive and completely bored at the same time. It was a skill.)

“Is everything alright, darling?”  She asked in concern, tilting her head so her hair fell over her pale, sloping shoulders in shimmering waves.

“Yes, I’m fine.”  He stopped talking.  She stared at him until he relented.  “My love.”

“Good.”  She pressed a kiss to his cheek, claiming him with a sticky red brand, and padded back to the door.

Roman felt like he was blindfolded on the edge of a chasm.  He didn’t know if his next step would land him on solid, familiar ground, or tumbling into the unknown.  He licked his dry lips. “Missy?” He waited until she paused in the doorway, head half-turned towards him.  “I love you.”

She smiled, facing him, golden and gorgeously bright.  “I know.”

Shaky ground.  Not quite solid, not quite the void.

He tried again.   _“_ _T_ _ú_ _eres mi media naranja.”_

A flash of annoyance crossed her face, and she walked out of the room with a scoff.  “You know I don’t like it when you start blabbering like that.”

Roman stood, dressed in something that he loved and would never be allowed to wear; a language singing on his tongue that he’d never be allowed to speak; and something like heart break in his chest as he realized a thought he’d never been allowed to think.  

The darkness of the unknown swallowed him, and his blindfold was ripped away.  Brightness really was blinding.

 

Patton, for some unfathomable reason, had insisted that Logan and Virgil get ready for the gala at his apartment.  Virgil had deliberated, with much agony, between asking his two friends, but the decision had been made for him when Patton declared that, what with all the baking he had to do for the gala, there was absolutely no way he was going.  That logic had seemed rather convoluted to Virgil at the time, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“You’re clear on the plan, right?”  Patton asked, fixing Logan’s silver tie with a single-minded determination.

Logan quirked a smile.  “If by plan, you mean ensuring Virgil is not overwhelmed by the sensory details of the party and observing him closely to see if any further association with The Prince-”

“-Roman-”

 _“-The Prince_ is indicated, then yes, I am quite clear on the plan.”  

Malcontent creased Patton’s freckled face as he arranged Logan’s pocket square, puffing it up until it stood out against his dark blue suit.  “Be nice to that kiddo, okay, Lo?”

Logan huffed a sigh.  “I am aware that you are under the impression that The Prince is not the antagonistic force in this situation, but I must voice some dubiety to trust any second-hand character analysis based on a singular interaction.  I don’t trust him, and I most certainly do not trust the clandestine nature of whatever relationship he and Virgil have.”

Patton hummed noncommittally.  “I’m trusting my gut on this one.  I can’t _stomach_ the thought that I’d be wrong here.”

In lieu of an antithetical response, Logan looked down at the baker, back to studiously fixing the astronomer’s tie, with warm amusement.  “I am fully capable of fixing my own tie, Patton.”

The baker’s hands stilled against the astronomer’s chest for a moment before smoothing down his lapels.  “I’ve got to make sure you look good for your big date with Virge.” He teased, ignoring Logan’s flush, before sobering some.  “For real though, this is a good idea, Lo. I’m glad you had that extra ticket. You two will have fun.” A sly smile spread across his face.

Logan widened his eyes in alarm.  “Patton, please, no.”

“I guess you could say that you two…”

“I beg of you.”

“Are going to have…”

“Spare me.”

“A _ball!”_

Logan stared into the distance and wondered for the millionth time why this person was one of the objects of his affection.

“Pat, you know this isn’t junior prom, right?”  Virgil clumped out of Patton’s bedroom on shining black brogues, awkwardly tugging at the collar of his jet-black suit.  “You really don’t need to take pictures of us and eve- what are you guys staring at?”

Logan and Patton both snapped their eyes to safer things to gawk at, like the sun and medusa.

“You look really nice, kiddo,”  Patton complimented him softly.

“I concur,”  Logan cleared his throat awkwardly.  “It will… truly be a pleasure to accompany you to the gala tonight.”

Virgil flushed at the praise, even as a small, pleased smile lifted the corner of his mouth.  He had been kinda bummed when Logan had said he couldn’t wear his normal attire to the gala - more specifically, Lo had given him a flat stare and thrown a suit at him - but even he had to admit, he looked pretty good.

He was encased in satiny black from head to toe - a rather dashing suit cut that made him look less skeletal than usual.  His black tie puffed out before tucking back into his vest, etched with silver swirls, matching Logan’s tie. His nails were painted silver and his hair had been combed slightly out of his face.

“Yeah, well…”  He shrugged. “Gotta look good to keep up with this guy.”  He playfully bumped shoulders with Logan as he wandered past them into Patton’s large, homey kitchen.

“Virge!”  Patton chased after him.  “Get back here! We’re doing makeup and pictures!”

Virgil groaned.

“Now, kiddo.”  Patton put his hands on his hips and gave him a _patton_ -ted Dad Look.  “Logan already has his eyeliner done, and you’re the one who said you wanna match.”

Virgil dragged his shoes dramatically across the floor before plopping into the stool Logan pulled out for him.

Patton considered his gaunt face with all the intensity of a surgeon about to perform a major operation.  “Eyeliner.” He commanded, holding out a hand.

“Eyeliner.”  Logan confirmed slapping it down in his palm.

Virgil bit his bottom lip as a half-smile took over his face.  He obediently closed his eyes and let Patton tilt his head upward to catch the light.  He didn’t see the look Patton and Logan passed each other over his head.

“So, kiddo.”  Patton started, over-casual as he began to drag the liquid liner across Virgil’s eyelid.  “Gotta admit I’m a tad curious.”

Virgil made a soft, confused noise.

“Why didn’t you invite that Roman we baked cookies with awhile ago?”

Virgil jerked, jostling Patton’s hand and sending a line of black eyeliner shooting across his face.

“Ah, shoot, sorry, Pat.”  His hands fluttered nervously, smudging at the errant eyeliner, musing his hair, picking at the skin on the side of his thumb.  “You caught me off guard.” He cleared his throat, accepting the damp paper towel Logan handed him and wiping off the stray marks.

“Are you quite alright, Virgil?”  Logan asked, shooting Patton a look.

“Yeah, I’m good.  I just...” Virgil faltered, hiding his face in the warmth of the paper towel.  “It’s been a long time since that happened, Pat. Didn’t really… go anywhere.”

“Sorry about that, kiddo.”  Patton took the towel. It was unclear if he was apologizing for broaching a sensitive subject, the imagined failure of a relationship, or painting half of Virgil’s face with eyeliner.

“Don’t worry about it.”  It was also unclear which of the offences Virgil was forgiving him for.

Patton finished Virgil’s makeup - just eyeliner and highlight, too much reminded him of all the times he had been forced to get dolled up as a teen - in relative silence.

“Well.”  Logan fractured the quiet.  “I must say that we look absolutely debonair.”

“These outfits really _suit_ you two!”  Patton agreed.

Virgil felt the disquiet that had been squeezing his gut relinquish its grip as a smile flickered across his face.  He was here with the two people he loved more than any - than almost anything else in the world. He was going to go to a fancy party in a killer suit and eat a ton of Patton’s mini-cheesecakes and resist all of Logan’s attempts to get him on the dance floor.  Yes, he was a villain going undercover to a party his technical nemesis and the girlfriend of said technical nemesis were throwing, but the reasons he had become a villain were standing right in front of him.

His life had inadvertently become messy and convoluted and complicated, but as long as he had the ones he loved with him, he was okay.

“I would like to state,”  Virgil proclaimed, rising from the stool and stretching.  “That any and all photos anyone ever takes either become evidence in an FBI case file or are eventually destroyed along with all the memories of those in them.”

“Oh, my sweet and sour shadowling,”  Patton cooed, arranging him and Logan in the entryway before grabbing a camera.  “I do not give a frick frack.”

Logan failed at biting down a snort of laughter, and Virgil’s eyes shone with amusement.  Patton snapped a picture of them. “Yup!” He cheered, looking at the camera’s display fondly.  “That’s a good one.”

“Then that will be sufficient to your needs?”  Logan asked, already edging away from the camera’s eye.

Patton laughed.  “Absolutely not.”  He brandished the camera.  “Get back, or I’ll be forced to… _shoot.”_

Logan groaned; Virgil couldn’t resist the urge to add to his misery.  “Come on, Lo.” He hauled the astronomer back and wrapped an arm around his waist.  “Don’t be so…”

Logan’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Virgil, not you too!”

_“Negative.”_

Patton broke out into peals of laughter while Logan repeatedly hit his head against Virgil’s shoulder.  “Et tu, Brute?” He sighed, resting his forehead against Virgil. “I had hoped you would at least have higher standards.  Those puns were so poorly…” He lifted his face and looked Patton dead in the eye. _“Developed.”_

Patton gasped in delight, letting go of the camera and letting it swing from the lanyard as he clamped his hands over a grin.  “Did you just make a pun?!”

“Obviously not.”  Logan said, completely blank-faced.  “I was merely critiquing your abuse of the English language.”

Virgil rolled his eyes affectionately.  “We’re going to be late, Lo.”

Logan checked his watch and grimaced.  “Quite right.”

Virgil shifted his gaze to Patton.  “You going to be okay here, Pat?”

The baker waved him off cheerfully.  “Don’t you worry about me, kiddo! Pat-thos and I are going to be having a good old fashioned Steven Universe marathon!”

Virgil considered him for a moment longer before nodding.  “See you later then.” He wrapped Patton in a hug before ambling out the door.  His hand slipped into his pocket, and he thumbed at the curves of the small gadget in it.

Patton grabbed Logan’s arm on his way out  “Keep him safe, okay?” Nerves worried at the corners of his eyes.

“I promise.”  Logan laid a soothing hand on his arm.  “But, honestly, Patton, we’ll be fine. It’s just a dance.  What could possibly go wrong?”

 

The starlight plaza was a proud, plush building adorned with towering white marble pillars and frosted glass.  Light from the party blurred as it streamed outside, painting the rich green grass with yellow stripes. It wouldn’t be out of place in a Grimm’s fairy tale.  As a matter of fact, the entire night seemed straight out of a fairytale. Any moment now, a woman with impossibly long hair would round the corner and gasp at the beauty of life outside of her tower.

The guests, as well, were too diverse to exist in real life.  Virgil recognized social elites of New Psyche, the press, and residents of UNABLED alike.  Under normal circumstances, they’d never have crossed paths, but here, they were living with the same excitement thrumming under their skin as they climbed the polished marble steps to the castle.

A woman with a poofy blue dress - Cinderella.  A man with a roguish grin and the Ability to turn small objects invisible - Aladin.  A person walking arm-in-arm with their datemate, sparks dropping from their fingertips and leaving a trail behind them that glowed in the moonlight - Hansel and Gretel.

A large, white dog with an oddly bulky collar slunk around the gardens that rimmed the building, winding through wildflower-studded shrubbery.  Not quite the big, bad wolf, but close enough.

As Virgil climbed the gleaming marble steps, arm-in-arm with Logan, he couldn’t help but feel some of the excitement that danced through the air seep into him.  He glanced at Logan and saw that he too was smiling and taking in the fantasy of it all with sparkling eyes. He wasn’t quite a dashing prince, but it was no giant stretch of the imagination to transform him into the eruditely charming court sorcerer.

Virgil didn’t stop to consider what role that left him with.  He knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

For some reason, they had to climb the glistening marble steps outside to walk through a grandiose lobby inside just to walk down another pair of polished oak steps, rimmed with a shining brass banister.  Actually, that might’ve been gold. Virgil was afraid to touch it and find out.

The ballroom was a startlingly large affair with a shining dance floor and tapestries hung around the room at regular intervals.  Already a myriad of people, Abled and Unabled alike, were mingling around the room’s edges. Laughter and chatter mixed with hesitantly plucked notes as the band warmed up.  Tuxedo-clad waiters darted from group to group, offering silver platters of Patton’s deserts and expensive champagne. Virgil pined longingly after a nearby waiter, holding what his nose recognized as Patton’s baked apple roses, while Logan guided him past clumps of guests.

“What’s up, party people?”  A tall black man stood on stage, wearing a baby blue suit and a dazzling smile.  “I’m Jamahl, and I’ll be your MC for tonight.” He tapped his fingers in the air, and the piano offstage sang out in response.  “I’m also your pianist in our amazing band, The Sides!”

The crowd broke into polite applause as Jamahl continued speaking, running through a list of people to thank for tonight’s event.  “-and who could forget, of course, Missy Darnelle and The Prince!”

A tuxedo-clad waiter strolled over with a silver platter of champagne flutes balanced on the tips of his fingers.  “Can you believe all of the Unabled people The Prince invited?” He smiled at the two Unabled people like he was sharing a secret with them as he held out the silver platter invitingly.  “I swear he’s losing it.”

Virgil ground his teeth together and prepared to deliver a roasting retort (spending so much time with Roman had made his comeback game much stronger) before he was stopped by Logan’s warning touch on his arm.

He shot Logan a _what are you doing?  I’m about to roast this bigot crispy_ glare.

Logan leveled him with a _Yes, and that would be remarkably entertaining; however, now is neither the time nor the place to make a scene_ look.

Virgil huffed air out through his nose in a _I hate it when you’re right_ manner.

Logan twitched his lips up in a _you must hate it all the time then_ fashion.  He leveled his glare on the waiter, where it became decidedly less warm.  “We’re Unabled.”

“Oh!”  The waiter’s eyes widened in panic.  He moved the platter between himself and the two Unabled, as if it were an effective barrier.  “I didn’t know, I’m so sorry!”

Logan cut him off with a clipped “It’s fine.”

The waiter shuffled awkwardly as Logan and Virgil made pained eye contact; they knew what would come next.

“I’ve got no problem with Unabled people.”

Whoop, there it was.

“As a matter of fact, my cousin is Unabled.”

Logan mentally willed the man to go look like a penguin somewhere else.

“His name is Oliver, maybe you know him?  He’s a detective.”

Triple threat.

“Not all Unabled people know each other.”  Virgil sighed.

“Yeah, I know that I just…”  The waiter stammered. “I think I see someone who needs a drink.”

He rushed off, much to the relief of all three involved.

Logan and Virgil looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Is that ever going to stop being awkward?”  Virgil struggled to keep another peal of laughter from escaping.

“Dubitably.”  Logan crisply unfolded his handkerchief to cover his ungainly snorts.

“Now then, ladies, gents, and those too cool for the gender binary,”  Jamahl’s voice drew their attention. “Please welcome the man and woman of the hour: The Prince and Missy Darnelle!”

The lights above the dance floor dimmed as those above the sweeping staircase brightened. Roman appeared, walking into the room like everyone in it owed him something.  Despite the supposed uproar in the public over his support of the Unabled, the guests still broke into applause at his entrance. His head was held high, a cocky smirk danced on his lips, and, despite his garish jacket, he was easily the most handsome man in the room.  

Every fairytale, of course, needed Prince Charming.

It was exactly the sort of display that only a few weeks ago would have made Virgil want to put his fist through a wall.  Now that he was more... familiar with the hero, however, he recognized the signs of anxiety that resided within him: the tense set of his shoulders, the smile so perfect it must've been practiced until it was as easy as breathing, the constant tapping of his left index finger against where Missy Darnell's hand rested on his right forearm.

Missy had hung herself like an ornament on The Prince's arm.  She was resplendent in draping red silk that revealed acres of pale, milky skin.  She arranged her face into an expression of vapid humility, her blue eyes vacuous and guileless.

It really was remarkable how easily they slipped into their public personas, like a mask worn so often it conformed to the wearers every crevice and divit, becoming a second skin.  They were porcelain perfect, flawless, untouchable.

Several people in the room started to seriously consider the major benefits of bisexuality.

They sauntered down the staircase; the perfect couple, in love with each other and the world, doing their best to help all of those poor little Unableds.  The crowd jostled against itself but hardly seemed to notice. They were all spellbound, bewitched by the man they loved and the beautiful woman who stood by his side.  They pulsed forward, drawn in like a moth to the flame, but they fluttered away just as quickly, afraid to get burned.

Roman and Missy strolled onstage.  Jamahl handed the microphone to Roman, who took it with a thankful smile.  Missy didn’t even bother to look at the MC as she subtly slipped a notecard into Roman’s hand.  Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed it; Virgil only did because he wasn’t spellbound like the rest of The Prince’s captive audience.  Not to say he wasn’t enchanted - by the shimmering lights, the glistening floors, this fantasy-perfect night - but he didn’t see Roman as The Prince anymore.  He was something entirely different.

Roman smoothly brought the notecard up, brushing past the pocket of his _incredibly_ garish suit jacket along the way, as if to make everyone believe it was his words that he proclaimed, not those Missy fed to him.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”  He hesitated a moment before tearing his gaze away from the notecard and adding “and distinguished guests.”

Behind him, Missy’s demure facade shifted slightly.  Virgil took a moment to observe her. With some degree of shame, he realized that while he had been busy… doing whatever the heck was  going on between him and Roman, he had more or less completely ignored the fact that he was already in a relationship. With a stunning woman nonetheless.

With a pang of guilt, he realized that Missy probably had no idea what her boyfriend was doing behind her back.  Oddly, just as he had that thought, he could’ve sworn that Missy’s eyes sought him out in the crowd, latching her gaze onto his.  The moment, however, passed before Virgil could safely determine what was happening.

Roman was still giving his speech, largely reading from the notecard, but occasionally looking up and giving his original thoughts.  It was easy to tell what those were. They were the quips that made the audience titter, the statements that made them nod seriously, and the honesty that made them shift.

Between that, his words were largely the same mundane drivel media that claimed to sympathize with the Unabled espoused.  The Unabled must be treated with respect and equality had for all and no more discrimination and blah blah blah. Virgil certainly agreed with all of those philosophies in practice, he had just grown rather jaded of the theory being thrown around year after year with no action taken.

“So,”  Roman began to wrap his address up.  “I thank all of you once again for supporting a wonderful cause by joining my beautiful girlfriend and I on this path to a new future.  I’m proud of everyone today who is here to make the world a better place for all!”

He flashed his cheesy, practiced beam at the audience - several people swooned, Virgil rolled his eyes, and Logan scowled - and strutted off stage.

“What was that, My Prince?”  Missy slithered over to him, placing a hand on his arm to keep him from moving.  “I thought you were going to read the speech I wrote for you.”

Roman pulled his arm away.  “And I thought that we were going to wear the gold.”

Missy drew back, stunned, and Roman smiled at her, camera-worthy and artificial.  “Come now, my love. We need to make the rounds.” He sauntered off, a genuine grin flickering at the corners of his mouth.

Virgil’s attention broke away from the stage as he saw a man waving enthusiastically at them from a few yards away.

“Hey, Thomas,”  He greeted the approaching man with a nod.  

“Salutations.”  Logan smiled. “A rather suave suit you have there.”

“Thanks!”  Thomas preened.  “Isn’t this party great?  

Virgil looked around at the glistling gala.  Underneath the oppulancy, there was a real effort here - a genuine push to make the changes he had wanted for so long.  And in the middle of it all, there was Roman. He was so beautiful, so incredible, that the universe of the gala instinctively clustered around his shining sun.  They orbited him like planets, getting as close as they dared risking being burned by his radiance.

He had done all of this.  He had seen that he was wrong and made a change, had started to make amends.  Virgil suddenly couldn’t speak around the emotion that cloyed his throat.

He coughed slightly, swallowed, and shrugged.  “Yeah, pretty solid, I guess.”

Thomas looked around with stars in his eyes.  “It’s incredible.” His voice softened, becoming wistful.  “It just makes me realize that we have so much left to do. I wish there was a way we could… flash forward to the happy ending.  That I could do something more.”

“Come now.”  Logan nudged him with his shoulder.  “I think this is a pretty good start.”

“Yeah,”  Virgil agreed.  “It really is.”

Boisterous laughter rang out, rather close to their little circle.  Logan looked for the creator of such an _exuberant_ guffaw and saw The Prince.  His lip curled.

Virgil glanced to his right and froze.  Logan hadn’t known it was possible for his ever-restless friend to go so still, like he had caught a glimpse of medusa herself.

“Roman!”  Thomas waved at the man.  “Over here!”

The Prince made his excuses to the group of socialites he was chatting up and made a beeline for them, standing between Logan and Thomas.  “I think that old Mrs. Van der Beek was trying to grope me.”

Virgil barely suppressed a snort of laughter, and Thomas hid his grin behind a wince of sympathy.  Logan, however, just looked at The Prince with a single, unimpressed eyebrow arched.

“Logan Abbott.”  He stiffly held out a hand to shake.  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

The Prince’s mouth teetered on the edge of amused, unsure if this was a joke or not.  Logan held his position. Virlil frantically tried to widen his eyes in a manner that signaled if Roman wanted to live, he needed to shake that hand.  The Prince seemed to realize his mistake and quickly accepted, grasping Logan’s hand and shaking it firmly.

“Well, then.”  Logan resisted the urge to wipe his hand.  It would be a shame to ruin his jacket. “I am unsure of how you and Thomas came to be acquainted.”

“He comes into the shelter every Thursday.  He started a few months ago when Patton and V-”  Thomas started before Virgil cut him off with a cough.

“Yeah, we know each other too.”  The villain shot a glare at a very bewildered Thomas.

“Is that right?”  Logan smirked. “I don’t think he’s ever mentioned you.”  He subtly shifted his hand placement on Virgil’s arm, drawing The Prince’s attention to it.

“Yes, well.”  The Prince straightened his posture and flashed an easy-going smile, even as his eyes flashed.  “Where would we be if the everyday rabble knew my schedule?”

“In an egalitarian society, I suspect,”  Logan retorted. “Or have you forgotten this entire event is to support the ‘everyday rabble’?”

“Hey, Roman.”  Thomas, who had been sharing wide-eyed glances with Virgil, gently intervened.  “Do you want to go try some of the lemon cupcakes?”

“I better.”  Roman sneered.  “More of your conversation would infect my brain.”

Logan froze.  He opened his mouth slowly, but no words came out.

Roman smirked until Logan spoke again.

“Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not.”

Virgil, whose heart was pounding with second-hand anxiety, futilely tried to interfere.  “Lo, do you want to go get a snack?”

Logan ignored him, staring down Roman, who was looking back in surprise.  A small smile began to tickle the corner of his mouth. “I do desire that we should be better strangers.”

An infinitesimal grin licked at Logan’s face.  “I wonder that you still will be talking. No one marks you.”

 _What is happening right now?_  Virgil mouthed at Thomas.

 _I have absolutely no idea._  He mouthed back.

Amusement crinkled Roman’s eyes.  “You, minion, are too saucy.”

“And you, sir,”  Logan fired back past his elation.  “Art a general offence.”

They grinned at each other.

“What was that?”  Thomas asked incredulously, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two.

They seemed to snap out of their revere, awkwardly coughing and averting their eyes as their smiles fell.

Logan shrugged.  “Your prince seems to have an appreciation for the bard.”

“And nineteen-eighty-snore here seems to be an even bigger nerd than first impressions would imply.”  Roman quipped.

Logan cut a glare at him.  “Half-wit.”

“Lord of the patronize.”

For lack of a better response, Virgil laughed.

Thomas seemed to take all of this as a positive development.  “I had a feeling you two would get along!”

They both adamantly denied it, but some unknown tension was released, making it easier for them to chat and laugh in their fairytale night.

Roman couldn’t help but relax around Thomas, the villain, and even Mansfield Snark.  This was the first time he could remember actually having fun at one of the stuffy parties Missy always dragged him to.  He was so content, in fact, he didn’t notice that Missy was rapidly approaching through the crowded banquet hall until she was only a few feet away.  The band was starting to play an upbeat salsa song, but Roman could almost swear he heard the Jaws theme as his girlfriend prowled closer and closer. He couldn’t be near her right now.

“Dance with me!”  He blurted in panic, grabbing the hand nearest to his.

“Pardon?”  Roman followed the muscular line of his arm down to see where his deep tawny hand was clasped with another and continued to follow his line of sight up a black dress shirt until he saw he had latched onto Logan Abbott.

Well.  Too late to back out now.

“Dance with me!”  He proclaimed yet again, flashing a charming smile.  “I’m sure a gentleman such as yourself will be schooled in all the modern dance styles, and you know what they say,”  He chuckled awkwardly, fervently wishing that he had just been born as a Disney cartoon. “It takes two to tango.”

“This is a salsa.”

Dear god what had he done.  “My point stands.”

Logan refinedly retracted his hand and took his glasses off, cleaning them with his tie.

Missy was barely five feet away now; Roman was ready to simply jump out of the nearest window when the Clockwork _bore_ -nge spoke again.  

“Very well.”  Logan slid his glasses back onto his nose and held out an arm.

“For real?”  Roman couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

Logan rolled his eyes.  “Your capabilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.  Besides, you were quite accurate in your assessment.” Roman took his arm as the nerd suddenly graced him with a winsome smile, tinged with a hint of mischief he hadn’t expected to see.  “It takes two to salsa.”

Thomas and Virgil watched with no small amount of surprise as the two took to the dance floor just as the band launched into the chorus.

“Did that just?”  Thomas asked, wide-eyed.

“Yup.”  Virgil, equally shell-shocked, responded.

“Are they really gonna?”

Logan and Roman were taking their positions on the dance floor.  After a brief deliberation, Logan stood in front of Roman, facing away with their hands clasped together behind him.

“Apparently.”

They waited for the band to hit the chorus again then they _moved_.

Logan shimmied his shoulders, his hips, his everything as Roman used his incredible strength to gently guide him through twirls.  They looked at each other, surprised at how well they worked together before wicked grins crossed their faces.

Logan murmured something Virgil couldn’t hear over the upbeat salsa music, but Roman threw back his head and laughed.  He spun Logan again at an impossibly dizzying speed before ducking him into a ridiculously deep dip, one of Logan’s legs hooked around his calf and trailing coquettishly upwards in time to the beat of the drums.

They moved together, flush from chest to hip as their legs moved in a dizzying array of kicks and turns.   

Virgil wasn’t going to lie.  He was more than a little turned on.

Roman hoisted Logan onto his muscular arm as Logan sliced the air in a circle with his long legs, effortlessly lifted off the ground.  Just when it appeared their flirtatious dance couldn’t get any more provockative, Roman wrapped his hands around Logan’s waist and - hold up that seemed like they should be getting arrested for public acts of indecency.

Logan’s legs were wrapped around Roman’s waist as the hero held his hands above their heads, guiding him through spinning around the hero’s body without ever losing contact.

This was illegal.  Virgil was going to call the police.

They were pressed together again, shaking and shimmying against each other.  Their faces were glowing with sweat and an unexpected joy as they lost themselves in the raw sensuality of the salsa.  They seemed to balance each other out perfectly. Logan’s movements were technically perfect and elaborate while Roman’s gestures were infused with passion and spontaneity.  Logan’s long, lean limbs were on full display as they cut through the ballroom’s light. Roman’s strength supported him and improved his movements, allowing for higher kicks, more dazzling turns, and impossible dips.  Their fiery rapture burned through the glistening wooden floorboards beneath them.

Virgil made a mental note to get some of the good painkillers on his way home.  Logan’s back would be killing him tomorrow.

He managed to tear his eyes away from the pair long enough to take in Thomas’s reaction.  He was just as spellbound as the rest of the room, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over slightly.  Virgil reached over and gently closed his parted lips with a tap to his chin. “You’ll catch flies.”

Not that he could begrudge Thomas for that.  Virgil let himself get swept away by the electric display before him.  Logan and Roman’s hands were clasped together, raised above their heads as they mirrored the other’s motions.

Virgil could read Roman’s smiling lips as he asked Logan something.   _Do you trust me?_

The pair spun around again, letting the villain see Logan’s reply.   _Yes._

Without any further ado, Roman placed one of his hands on Logan’s back as the other swept his legs out from under him.  He threw Logan, spinning, into the air above his head and caught him bridal-style as the last strains of the music came to a crashing finale.

Applause broke out from around the room as Logan and Roman looked around to realize that they had literally cleared the dance floor.

Roman lowered Logan, flushed from exertion and embarrassment, to the ground.  Logan quipped a biting remark about the press under his breath and Roman fought to contain his amused snort.

“Guys, that was amazing!”  Thomas laughed, approaching them.  Virgil made to follow, but a clear, bell-like voice startled him, freezing him in place.  

“Aren’t they just marvelous?”  He turned to see Missy Darnelle standing behind him, smiling.

“I…”  Virgil fished around for a proper response.  “Yeah, that was pretty impressive.”

Missy giggled, a light and airy sound.  “I do so hate to get shown up.” She looked at Virgil expectantly.

“Oh, um.”  Virgil tensed.  “I’m not really much of a dancer.”

“Aw.”  She widened her sky-blue eyes and pouted her red-painted lips.  “There’s really nothing to it!” The strands of a waltz started to escape the band and slither out across the dance floor.  “Come on.” Her hand was suddenly clenched around his arm. “I’ll show you.”

She dragged him past Thomas, Logan, and Roman - who was laughing and calling Logan ‘prideful and prejudice’; thankfully Logan didn’t seem to mind - and onto the gleaming dance floor.

Virgil thought that he vaguely recognized the song from some cheesy teen drama.

Missy put his hand on her thin waist and reached her arm up at what must’ve been an uncomfortable angle to place her delicate palm against the curve of his shoulder.  She smiled at him, beautiful, elegant, and vulnerable. Suddenly, it was so easy to see why everyone called her and Roman the perfect match. She was the princess to his Prince, the damsel in distress.

“Are you enjoying the party?”  She asked kindly.

Virgil internally groaned.  Small talk. “Yeah, it’s great.”  He attempted a smile.

She hummed noncomentally for a moment.  “Here, it’s just a simple box-step. One-two-three, one-two-three.”  Virgil clumsily copied her graceful footwork, flushed with embarrassment.  He suddenly felt, with acute paranoia, that every eye in the room was on them, harshly judging him for contaminating such a lovely creature with his awkwardness.

They certainly made for an awkward pair.  The top of her head barely reached his collarbone, making it easy for him to see the panic on Roman’s face when he spotted the two of them.  A small crease appeared in the middle of Virgil’s forehead as malcontent dug into his side.

“Sorry for dragging you out here,”  Missy, with a hint of laughter in her apology, drew his attention.  “I was just getting a bit sick of all those stuffed shirts.”

Virgil couldn’t help a snort.  “Your fault for inviting them.”

Missy giggled.  “I guess you’re right, but Roman was actually the one who did most of the planning for this.  I am absolutely clueless when it comes to organization.” A flush prettily spread across her cheeks - she looked hopelessly in love.  “He’s incredible.”

A pang of guilt turned Virgil’s head away; he didn’t see the small smile that curved her mouth or the look she exchanged with Roman as their simple dance spun them past.

She didn’t allow, however, anyone to see the way she flinched and guided them away from a larger group of people.  Her delicate nose scrunched and her forehead wrinkled in pain, but by the time Virgil was paying attention again, her mask was back in place

“Do you two…”  He stalled, unsure of how to make small talk, how to talk to the woman who he was possibly contributing to being cheated on, how to phrase a question he wouldn’t immediately feel sick upon hearing the answer to.  “It’s quite a story. How you two met.”

She lit up.  Her golden hair, her sunny demeanor, her radiant smile - her brightness was blinding.  “He saved my life, you know.”

A rapidly forming lump in Virgil’s throat threatened to suffocate him.  “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“I fell off a building when he was battling Mistress Malice.”  She shuddered. “Dreadful woman.”

“Yeah,”  Virgil tried to keep track of the stilted conversation past the fog of guilt in his head.  “Wasn’t she the one who wanted to turn the ocean into a menagerie for cats?”

Missy laughed, the sound gorgeous and so painfully bright.  “I’ve never really bothered to pay attention to all of those silly supervillains.  I know my Roman will save us.”

“He’s not.”  Virgil stated before he could stop himself.

Missy misstepped, accidentally stomping on Virgil’s foot.  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” He brushed off her apology and they resumed their simple box-step.  “What was that you said though?”

Virgil tensed, gaze darting away so she couldn’t see the unspeakable things swirling in his eyes.  “It was nothing.”

“No, tell me!”  Missy pouted, sounding so petulant that Virgil couldn’t help but look down at her in surprise.  She smiled at him. His eyes burned with her light.

“It’s just that…”  He hesitated. “You said ‘my Roman’.  But… he’s not. He’s his own person.”

For some reason, this seemed to deflate Missy, her delicate face losing some of its exuberance.  “You’re right.” She mourned. “He is.” She looked up at him earnestly. “Am I crazy?”

Virgil stumbled.  “What?”

“It’s silly, I know.”  Her shoulders hunched in as much as the dance would let them, and her eyes cast themselves downward.  Virgil’s sympathy pinged at the signs of anxiety that so often ran through his own mind. “But he’s just been so distant lately.”

The fog of guilt grew claws, scraping against the inside of his skull.  “For… for how long?”

He had blown up that statue of Roman about five months ago.  Anything longer than that and he was in the clear.

“Ever since The Savior or whatever they’re calling him showed up for the first time.”

So much for that then.

“I know that he’s not cheating on me or anything.”  She laughed. “You’d have to be insane to think that anyone would chose anyone else over me.”  She peered up at him expectantly. “I’m beautiful, aren’t I?”

“Yes,”  Virgil agreed.  It was completely true, objectively speaking.  “You’re gorgeous.”

She giggled, pleased.  “And I know he’d never choose someone like you for example - no offence - over me.”

Virgil’s hands began to shake from their awkward grasp on Missy’s thin waist.  “None taken,” He croaked out.

“And we’ve been together for so long.”  She mused. “Even if he was interested in someone else, he’d either lose interest, or regret it.”

His words rasped against the dryness of his throat, grating it on their way out.  “You’re probably right.”

The last strands of music twirled to a finish; Virgil found that they were at the edge of the dance floor.

“Thank you so much for the dance.”  Missy grinned up at him, endearingly childish in the faux formality of her tone.  “It was delightful, Virgil.”

A cold chill settled over Virgil.  “I never told you my name.”

She smiled, beautiful, elegant, and dangerous.  “It must’ve just slipped from your mind.”

“Right… I…”  He balked away from her, edging back until he almost crashed into a waiter.  “I need to go get some air.”

He skittered on the edge of the opulent party room until he found a sliding glass door.  He quickly stepped through into the cool night air, letting the darkness soothe his eyes until the impression of a blindingly bright smile wasn’t etched on the back of his eyelids.

He had emerged on a large concrete balcony, only a story or so off of the ground.  He padded to the edge of the ledge, leaning his elbows on the ornate bannister that peppered the terrence’s lip with grecian columns.  

The view of the star-studded night was incredible.  Soft light shone across an elaborate garden, once manicured to perfection, but now starting to become overgrown.  Wildflowers intertwined with roses; vines curled flirtatiously around a low-slung, crumbling wall that separated the garden from... more garden.  

Virgil would never understand rich people.

"Party a bit much for you?" He turned around to see Roman sliding the frosted glass door closed behind him.

"I've never been great with crowds."  For the first time, he properly took in Roman's elaborate jacket and snorted.  "Nice suit."

Roman shrugged out of the stifling monstrosity and tossed it over a nearby wrought-iron choir. "Not my choice, trust me."  He stood next to Virgil in a plain white shirt and slacks, arms resting on the concrete bannister. "Do you like it though? The party?"

Virgil turned his head to hide a smile.  "It's more than I ever would have expected.  The Prince did a great job. Not that I'd ever tell him that."

"My lips are sealed."  Roman paused before adding softly.  "He never would have been able to do it without you."

Virgil's heart lurched.  "He doesn't give himself enough credit."

The pulsing music inside softened as the band settled into a slower song, the piano twinkling gently alongside the stars.

Roman's mouth went dry.  "I... I'm sure he'd like to ask you to dance. If you wanted to."

Virgil's hand tightened on the banister.  "I don't think I would."

Roman deflated.  "Oh."

Virgil turned to face him fully. Roman's dark-fawn skin shone under the moonlight; his hair flopped over his eyes as he turned his face away, embarrassed.

"I'd much rather you ask me, Roman."

Roman stilled then held out a hand.  "What about it, you emo nightmare?" His tone was light but his hand was unsteady. "Dance with me?"

Virgil took it.  "Yes."

Roman pulled him close and there was an awkward moment where neither was sure where to put their hands, but then Virgil laced their fingers together and Roman placed a hand on the shorter man's waist.

Virgil marveled at how well they fit.  

Roman led him through the steps a tad stiffly, but when Virgil accidentally stepped on his toe, he just laughed.  "I'm fine, storm cloud."

After that, it somehow became easier to sway together to the music.

_You're in my arms, and all the world is calm._

_The music playing on for only two._

They danced together under the moonlight, momentarily free from the roles they had to play.

_So close, together._

_And when I'm with you_

_So close, to feeling alive._

"Isn't this the song from Enchanted?" Virgil murmured.

Roman looked at him, surprised. "You're a Disney fan?"

Virgil blinked, equally taken aback. "Have you seen The Black Cauldron? Who wouldn't love that?"

Roman laughed. "The emo-est option possible, of course." He squeezed their hands.  Virgil felt lightning run through his veins.

_A life goes by,_

_Romantic dreams must die._

_So I bid mine goodbye_

Roman knew that only a thin pane of glass away, his real life was waiting. But this felt more real than anything he had ever experienced in that life with those people. It couldn't last, but for the first time, he knew why Cinderella hadn't wanted to run from the ball.

_And never knew._

_So close, was waiting,_

_Waiting here with you._

Virgil laughed as Roman dipped him, taking the opportunity to hold him even tighter, to press even closer.  He wanted to melt into Roman until there were no misunderstandings or prejudices or anything else between them.  He didn’t want Missy or The Prince or The Savior or their differing opinions. He simply wanted Roman.

Roman who was kind.

Roman who was sassy.

Roman who was overdramatic.

Roman who was trying to make amends.

Roman who was, entirely independent of The Prince, a hero.

_And now, forever, I know_

_All that I wanted_

_To hold you so close._

Roman twirled Virgil, pulling him into his arms.  He couldn't help but notice how neatly the emo fit.  People had been looking up at him his whole life; here was someone who finally looked him in the eyes.  His breath stirred the hairs at the back of the shorter man's neck as he softly sang along.

_So close to reaching_

_That famous happy end._

"Makes you believe in a happy ending, doesn't it?"  Roman twirled Virgil back to face him. He wasn't talking about the music.

_Almost believing_

_This one's not pretend._

Virgil smiled bitterly.  "Happy endings don't exist."  If they did, he wouldn't be standing here, dancing with the man who was supposed to be his nemesis.  If they did, they wouldn't have to hide from the world to spend time together. If they did, the world wouldn't be painted with complicated shades of gray; he would know what the right thing to do was.

_And now you're beside me,_

_And look how far we've come._

“I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”  If Roman didn’t know better, he would’ve said the other man sounded almost fond.

He wondered if it was possible to be nostalgic over something that had never happened. Over a could-have-been.

"I wish we had met another way." He confessed. It was a poor way to phrase the sorrow that filled his chest. But what other way could he describe the longing that permitated every cell in his body until he felt that he was more sadness than man?  He could've had a normal life. The Prince could have never existed.

_So far we are. So close..._

A bittersweetness touched the villain's face.  "Maybe you could've been a detective and I could've been a reformed gang member."

“Why is that the first place your mind goes?”

“Trying to keep it realistic here, Princey.”

Roman threw out his arm in a sweeping gesture.  “Screw reality!” He proclaimed grandly.

“Truly an excellent motto to live by.”  Virgil deadpanned.

“No, I mean it!”  Roman turned back to him, shining with effervescence as he relaced their fingers together and gently squeezed.  “We can be absolutely anything we come up with.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Roman rolled his eyes.  “Let me show you how it’s done, Count Woe-laf.”  He cleared his throat and proclaimed dramatically.  “I could be a world-renowned fashion designer and you could be my muse.”

“Or you could be an actor and I could be your makeup artist.”  Virgil fired back.

“You could be a mythical Fae and I could be an actual prince.”

“Or you could be a lyricist and I could be a music composer.”

"Or you could be be a dead-inside tour guide and I could be the incredibly handsome man who keeps asking oddly specific questions."

“Or you could be a chef and I could be a food critic.”  Virgil’s voice grew softer as he allowed himself to bask in the fantasy.

_Oh how could I face the faceless days_

_If I should lose you now?_

"Or a singer and a pianist trying to make it in Hollywood."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "That's just the plot of La La Land."  He hesitated then added so quietly that Roman was sure he wasn’t meant to hear.  "They didn't end up together either." He cleared his throat. "Or we could be rival street magicians."

"Or we could meet in a Disney chat room."

"Or we could just run onto each other on the street."

"Or-"  Roman smiled. "We could meet at a coffee shop."

_We're so close to reaching_

_That famous happy end,_

Virgil laughed softly. "I would be picking up a job application-"

"-and I would see you and decide that, 'hey, that weird emo guy is actually kinda cute'-"

"-and I'd be like, 'nah, this guy literally acts like a Disney prince, seems sketchy'-"

"-but then my good looks and gentlemanly nature would persuade you that I'm genuine-"

"-and I would take advantage of your supposed gentlemanly nature and make you buy me a black coffee-"

"-and I would refuse because that is still an absolutely _dreadful order seriously how can you drink that-"_

"-so I would scoff and let you buy me some ridiculously extravagant drink because maybe you seem not terrible-"

"-and so we would sit and talk for hours about how perfectly, terribly mundane our lives are-"

"-and I would keep stealing sips of your skim double mocha venti, half-whole milk whatever to keep from yawning while you would tell me about your stamp collection-"

"-and I would let you yammer on about My Chemical Romance because you would have a bit of whipped cream on your nose, and I would think that it's adorable-"

"-and I would somehow cox the truth that you actually like emo music out-"

"-and you would decide that I'm the most handsome and charismatic man that you'll ever meet.”  Roman swallowed. “Then I would ask you for your number... and a second date."

_And almost believing,_

_This one's not pretend._

Virgil tightened his grip on Roman's hand.  "And I would say yes."

"That sounds nice."

"Yeah,"  Virgil agreed.  "Yeah, it really does."

_Let's go on dreaming_

“Hey, storm cloud.”  Roman said softly, leaning forward until their foreheads touched.  Neither had the courage to close the final gap, knowing that it would transform this perfect fairytale into something real, something impossible.  “You actually should take me on a date sometime.”

_For we know we are…_

“You know we can’t-”

“I know.”  Roman breathed, closing his eyes painfully.  “Please, just… Just let me pretend.”

_So close, so close_

Virgil laughed softly, bitterly.  “A date. Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere away from here.”

_And still so far_

The music swelled one final time then faded.

They both continued to sway, wanting to believe that they could maintain this fragile peace through sheer force of denial.

“They’re going to be looking for you, Princey.”

“Let them.”

“You get to explain exactly what we’re doing out here then.”  Virgil gently untangled himself. “You need to go get your happy ending.”

Roman knew his happy ending wasn’t in there.  “I thought you didn’t believe in those.”

The villain’s mouth twisted ironically.  “I don’t. But if anyone deserves one, it’s you.”

Roman’s hand reached out to hold Virgil’s.  “So do you. I want you to have one too.”

Virgil looked into Roman’s eyes and felt the rose petals, as insistent as ever.  Or maybe it wasn’t a rose. Maybe it was a carnation. “Then…” He swallowed, a dryness cloying his throat, but his words could not be contained.  “Then have one with me.”

Roman stilled; Virgil, awkwardly carried on by his own momentum, banged against the hero’s iron grip.  “What?”

For the first time in forever, Virgil allowed himself to hope.  “Join me. Be a villain too.”

Roman made to pull away, but Virgil grabbed his hands and held them, clasped to his chest between the two.  “We’d be unstoppable together!” His voice filled with rapture as he allowed himself to imagine it. “Think of all the good we could do!  We could start and finish wars; we could fix society; we could make the world a place everyone could be happy in! We could…” He looked earnestly at Roman and was shocked to see the apprehension growing there.  “We could be together.” He murmured, looking at Roman with the moon-gray eyes he adored.

 _Yes!_  Roman’s heart screamed.   _Yes, of course, yes!_

But his mouth formed quite different words.  “At what cost?” He pulled his hands out of Virgil’s.

Virgil tensed.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“At what cost?”  Roman repeated, taking a step back in a futile attempt to clear his head.  “At what point are we doing too much? At what point do we stop fixing and start destroying?  I… I’m not a criminal. What you do… what you’re doing… is wrong. You’re a villain.”

Virgil took a step back, shoes crunching on the broken parts of his heart.  “What I’m doing.” His voice shook, so he allowed the rage to seep in, steading him.  “Is fixing the mess that you made. What’s legal isn’t always right, _your highness.”_

Roman’s legs felt weak, so he allowed fury to take over, keeping him upright.  “I didn’t make this mess! This is bigger than either of us! I’m trying-” He gestured emphatically at the party behind him.  The real world was only a thin pane of glass away. “-to make amends. But we don’t need to break the law to do that!”

Virgil snarled.  “So what? You’re going to just throw money at the problem until it goes away?  You’re such an idiot. I can’t believe I wanted to-” He snapped his jaw shut, cutting himself off.

“This was a mistake,”  Roman said. “I shouldn’t have come out here.”  He pulled his ridiculous jacket back on.

“You’re right.”  Virgil said tersely.  “It was.” He turned away, trembling and suddenly exhausted.  “Go get your happily ever after, Princey.”

Virgil heard the glass door slam closed, panes rattling.  

“I’ll be the one to wreck it.”  

He squeezed the ornate concrete bannister until his knuckles threatened to burst through his skin.  He didn’t know why he was surprised. Roman had never been able to catch him before, why should it be different now that Virgil had fallen for him?  

 

In Logan’s defence, he had actually been doing a pretty good job of keeping an eye on Virgil until the salsa happened.  Then he had been busy grappling with the startling revelation that maybe The Prince wasn’t so bad. When Roman casually quoted Coriolanus, Logan was forced to reconsider his opinion of the ignoramus, and after their salsa… well.  Suffice to say he felt as if ‘Roman’ was a much more appropriate term of address.

Logan digressed.  The fact of the matter was that he had let Virgil slip away.  He had briefly seen him in a rather awkward waltz with Missy Darnelle of all people, but now he had no idea where he was.

Patton was far too benevolent to murder him, but when compared to the dissapointed Dad Look, death was almost preferable.

Logan forced himself to calm, taking a deep breath and stilling his hands.  Panic was merely a waste of mental and physical energy. He slipped a hand into his pocket, running his fingers over its contents: a mint, a gum wrapper, a burner phone, his handkerchief, a scrap piece of paper.

Categorize.

Focus.

Calm.

He had last seen Virgil dancing with Missy Darnelle.  Scanning the room for her now, he saw her not in a mob of people as expected, but in an isolated, dark corner.  The back of one of her delicate hands rested on her forehead as she lifted a red pill to her mouth and swallowed.  Her grimace of pain faded and she slumped against the wall, looking pale and exhausted.

As if she heard him, her eyes snapped to meet his.  Even across the massive room, the electric blue of her eyes was striking.  He nodded, and she straightened up, flashed a blinding grin, and sashayed back into the party with renewed energy.

Roman then.  Now where was he?

Standing with a stiff set to his shoulders and his fists clenched at his sides until they shook, Roman was next to an elderly woman in an alarmingly vibrant pink dress.  He was smiling and nodding as she chattered at him, her hands moving to quite literally paint a picture in the air, but his eyes were glazed. He was looking through the translucent tiger, not at it.  His hand released his shaking fist, flexed, and clenched it again. He was starting to get impatient. His leg was jiggling, not enough to be apparent, but enough to be noticeable if you were as keen an observer as Logan.

Logan shook his head and moved his eyes away.  Virgil still needed to be found. He frowned, trying to get into the mindset of his emo friend.  “My chemical romance,” He muttered. “Ripped black skinny jeans. I wear large and clunky headphones all the time.”  

He skulked around the edges of the room as he imagined Virgil might, but only ended up feeling ridiculous and returning to his typical upright posture.  Getting into the mindset of the one you pursued was much easier when wearing a deerstalker.

Luckily, a nearby frosted glass door slid open, revealing the missing subject in question.  His jaw was clenched so tightly that Logan feared for his dental health, and he was picking the skin at the edge of his thumbnail raw and pink.

“Virgil!”  Logan greeted him, trying to hone his inner Patton to project a ‘soothing vibe’, as his notecards would refer to it.  “I take it you took the opportunity to grab a moment of solitude?” He gently laid a hand on top of Virgil’s fingers, stopping him before he picked his skin bloody.

Something in Virgil’s expression darkened, a jarring shift from distress to bitterness.  “Something like that.”

Across the room, Missy had roped Roman into a classically romantic waltz as the singer began to croon.  “Every breath you take, every move you make…”

This dance was just as extravagant as Roman and Logan’s, but it was nowhere near as passionate.  Where Logan and Roman had exchanged dazzlingly mischievous grins, clever quips, and exhilarated laughs, this dance was simply technical.  Missy and Roman moved to hit their marks, just as dazzling as a diamond, but also just as cold. There were no secretive smiles, no lovelorn sighs, no missteps to make them human.

They were the princess and The Prince, ethereal, glowing beings who belonged in this night of fairy tales.

Virgil averted his eyes, vaguely considering going back out on the balcony, but both the option of staying here and going there made him feel ill.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sanders?”  Just as Virgil had decided to make a break for it, a penguin-esque waiter waddled up to him.

Virgil eyed her warily.  “Yes?”

“You have a call waiting for you in enclave two.”

Logan shot Virgil a confused look, but he just shrugged.  “Probably a mistake. I’ll deal with it.” Anything was better than just standing here and stewing in his own furious misery.

At least, that’s what he thought until he stood in the enclave and heard a familiar crackle of static.  “Virgil,” U. N. Owen said. “I trust that you’re enjoying the party.”

“Yeah,”  Virgil scoffed bitterly.  “It’s _great.”_

“I was hoping you’d say that.”  The Voice paused for a moment. “They’re finishing up their dance now, aren’t they?”

In fact, they were.  The final strum of a guitar signaled the grand end to their dance, with Roman dipping Missy and pressing their foreheads together in a gesture too deliberate to be classified as tender.

“Yeah.”  Virgil frowned, a twinge of discontent making itself known, although whether it was over The Voice’s implied omnipotence or a stab of envy over Roman’s actions remained unknown.  “How did you kn-”

“You’re about to see something that will interest you.”

“Excuse me, everyone?”  Missy’s bell-like voice rang out over the room as Roman released her.  The crowd obediently formed a circle at their princess’s command.

“Now watch this.”  The Voice hissed in Virgil’s ear.

Missy waited until every eye in the room was trained on her.  “Hello, everyone!” She smiled becomingly. “As I’m sure you know, I am Missy Darnelle.”  She waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “But what you may not know is that it was four years ago on this very day that I met the love of my life, our Prince, for the first time.”  She took a deep breath. “So when I heard that he decided to throw this gala today, I decided there was no better moment than now to do something I’ve been planning for a while now.”

A sense of horror crept over Virgil as a waiter came up to the blond woman and handed her a small velvet box.

She took it and held it in her hand as she turned back to Roman.  She smiled again, the picture of nervous excitement. “My Prince,”  She said. “We’ve been together for four years now. You’ve been my closest companion, my dearest friend, and my true love.  We fit together perfectly; I know that you were made to be mine. You are everything that I want, and I am all that you need.  You have opened my heart and shown me how deeply I can love. I want you. I want to have you forever. And not just because you’re incredibly hot.”

The crowd laughed.  Missy looked around at them, soaking in the approval.

“This is who he is meant for.”  The Voice crept over Virgil, stealing his breath.

The crowd gaped and murmured in appreciation as Missy knelt down on one knee in front of their Prince.  “I promise I will love you, keep you, and care for you until death do us part. I vow to be your everything until the end of time, just as I know you will always be mine.”  She opened the velvet box to reveal a simple golden band. “My love,” She asked breathlessly. “Will you marry me?”

Roman looked at Missy, at her shining eyes.  He looked at the cameras and the phones his guests had whipped out, broadcasting his every breath to the entire world.  For one brief moment, he looked at the enclave where Virgil hid, but his gaze passed over it. He looked at the plain, solid gold band - not his style at all.  He looked at the masses surrounding him. Ensnaring him.

Caging him.

They were crucifying him on a cross of gold.

“Yes.”  He heard his voice say.  “Yes, of course, my love!”

Virgil felt more than listened to the voice flow into his ear.  “This is how the story goes, Virgil. The hero and the princess.  Remember who you are. Remember _what_ you are: the villain of this story.”

He felt something hot and sticky oozing between his fingers.  He looked down to see that his free hand was clenched into a fist, fingernails piercing his taunt skin.  Blood dripped from his hand, staining the white marble floor with perfect, red rose petals.

“He isn’t yours.”  Virgil waited, but nothing else came.  Only a soft clicking. He hung up the phone gently.  It was that or throw it across the room.

His skin felt feverish as he walked away from The Prince and Missy, who were now kissing passionately, much to the assembled press’s delight.  He had to leave.

“Virgil!”  A random UNABLED resident he couldn’t bother to remember the name of caught sight of him as he walked numbly towards the exit.  “Did you see that? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful.”  Virgil parroted robotically.

“Virgil?”  Oh, Logan was there too.  “Are you quite alright? You appear… unwell.”  His voice sounded like it was coming from underneath the water.

“What did you do to your hand?!”  Thomas - also there, apparently - gasped.  He sounded so far away.

“I’ve- I’ve got to go.”  Virgil stumblingly pushed past them.

“Virgil!”

The cool night air hit Virgil like a slap to the face.  He breathed it in deeply then even deeper, trying to push out the red-hot, pulsating knot growing like a tumor in his chest.  Something wet trickled between his lips; he tasted salt.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the balcony he and Ro… he and The Prince had danced on.   _You’re a villain,_  The Prince had said, perfect face contorted with disgust.

Well, if The Prince wanted a villain to his picture-perfect fairytale, then who was Virgil - who was The Savior - to refuse?

A painful smile cracked his face open.  There were the thorns, piercing his side as blood dripped down his torso, plastering his black dress shirt to his shredded skin.  He had been right.

There were no happy endings.

He fell to his knees on the marble steps and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Calamity, "I'd say I'm sorry, but I meant to do it."
> 
> (1 kudo = 1 signature on the petition to hurl Missy directly into the sun  
> 1 comment = 3 signatures)
> 
> This entire chapter wasn't in the original outline but then I had the mental image of Virgil staring in horror as Missy proposed to Roman and digging his fingernails into his hand until scarlet blood dripped to the floor, staining the white marble as The Voice hisses in his ear that Roman isn't his. :)
> 
> Also! Look at this nice, consistent upload schedule I have. It'd be a shame if someone... hurled it out a window...
> 
> As always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO
> 
> Love you all!


	13. Local Bad Guy: "What? No, I'm definitely a good person."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER  
> Kid being kicked out of the house by parent  
> kidnapping  
> kinda torture (?)  
> gore  
> graphic descriptions of injuries  
> -Skip the middle three sections for all of those  
> Slight body horror - skip the paragraph starting with "the eyes that should've"
> 
> I'll have a summary of the middle sections in the end notes if you decide to just skip them
> 
> Love you all!

He swept down the street with the power of a hurricane roaring within his bones.  His skin couldn’t contain the storm brewing inside of him; it tore apart at the seams, spewing flood waters and biting winds.  Rage spewed from him until he was more storm than man.

The Earth shook under the pounding of his shining black brogues as he prowled from shadow to shadow.  The wind had picked up; it whipped through him, freezing his limbs, but he didn’t feel a thing. The wild tempest inside his chest turned him to ice until he was so brittle he was sure that, any moment now, his fingers would start to snap off.

Nothing, however, could contain the wrath that propelled him through the darkness of New Psyche at the witching hour.

He was done with noble compromises.

He was done seeing the world in shades of gray.  There was light and dark, good and evil, injustice and justice.  He had been an idiot to think there was another way. It was time to leach the color from the world until once again he could see the darkness he belonged in.

The world would never see him as anything other than what he was.  Anything other than Unabled. Anything other than the antagonist. Anything other than the monster parents told their children stories about at night.  Anything other than the villain in their history.

Fine by him.  If they wanted a villain, he’d be the villain.  

After the way the world treated him, after the way it had attacked Patton, humiliated Logan, made discrimination and bigotry the norm, after the way it had tricked him into believing that everything would be okay, after the way it had told him it was feeling less than nothing and danced with him and was kind and surprisingly intelligent and snarky-

A howl tore from his throat and joined the wailing of the thrashing winds.

The world deserved to burn.

Or, he considered - sweeping down the spiral staircase to his layer and barring his teeth in a grotesque smile at the parts of his beautiful machine, already unveiled and waiting for him in the middle of his lab; _’you know what to do’_ a sticky note in swooping, precise cursive read - even better yet…

It deserved to bleed.

 

Arbor Price was a good man.  He went to church every Christmas Eve and Easter and donated to charity.  He had never cheated on his wife, although he had been more than tempted on several occasions.  He never snapped at his children for bothering him when he was working, just firmly sent them away.  He helped them with their homework when they needed it. He told them stories and read to them. He held a steady job - albeit one that he hated - a short commute away in in New Psyche to support his family.

He was a good neighbor as well.  He smiled at his neighbors, watered their plants when they were off on vacation, and didn't stick his nose into their business. He always brought some delicious ambrosia salad for neighborhood barbecues. He mowed the old lady across the way’s yard for her in the summer and swept the snow from her driveway in the winter.

He was a good coworker, always making everyone laugh with the jokes he made about their boss.  He came to work on time and took pride in the quality of his efforts. Organizing displays, guiding tours, answering questions -- he was all-around capable. They were lucky to have him.

He was a good father, one who was willing to make tough decisions and sacrifice for his kids.  When his oldest son, having already reached puberty and not yet presenting an Ability, turned out to be Powerless, he had kicked him out of the house.  He wouldn’t have that filth contaminating his other son and daughter. He had given him a few hundred bucks and closed the door, heedless of the way that his daughter had screamed and his son - the only one he had left now - had been frozen, paralyzed with shock and horror.

He was a good husband.  He still hadn’t cheated on his wife, even after she turned him away from their bed night after night.  He did, however, refuse to sign the divorce papers she always pushed at him. He loved his family. He wasn’t going to let anything tear them apart.

He was, of course, a good citizen.  He did his civic duty by voting in every election - he didn’t waste his time researching the candidates, however; he just voted for his party - and by being a proud member of the Powered Citizens United Corp.

His Ability was nowhere near as visible as that of his wife and her butterfly's wings - at times he was paranoid that someone would mistake him for Powerless -  but it was undeniably extraordinary. He could perfectly copy anyone’s voice after only hearing it once. He and his friends had gotten up to a lot of mischief in his high school and college years by making prank calls and phoning themselves in sick to school.

His trouble-making years weren't quite behind him, however.  He was vaguely impressed that a simple argument he had managed to get into had ended up starting a riot.

Not to say that he was surprised. There was a low thrumming of power surging through New Psyche, firing up tempers and incendiary action. Ever since that new radical social justice warrior - The Savior or whatever they were calling him - had shown up, the Powerless had gotten more and more brazen, and, for whatever reason, normal citizens were just letting them.

It got even worse after that garbage newspaper started being published.  Powered Citizens United Corp recruitment was at record lows, and several members had dropped out.

“It's nothing personal, Arbor, it's just…”  His ex-friend Thorne had said, awkwardly scratching at his whiskered chin.  “I don't feel right about it anymore. My parents were in this group and my grandparents before them, but it just… I don't feel right about it,”  He had repeated, shaking his head. “Trying to keep the Powerle- the Unabled down like we do? All that hate… It's not… it's not okay. I can't be a part of this anymore.”  His gaze and voice had dropped to the floor.

Arbor had scoffed at the man’s unreasonableness.  “We're not an anti-Powerless group, Thorne. We're a pro-Powered organization.”

Thorne had smiled grimly.  “Yeah, I used to think that too. But it's not, and you know it.”

Arbor had turned away silently.

“C’mon, Arbor,”  Thorne had pleaded, mousey voice high and irritating to his ex-friend’s ears. “Buddy, you know you're better than this.”  He placed a comradely hand on Arbor’s shoulder.

Arbor had snarled at him and roughly pulled away.  “And I thought you had common sense, but I guess we were both wrong.”

Thorne had stood, frozen with hesitance for a moment then paralyzed with grief for a moment longer.  “There's this, uh… there's this soup kitchen.” He had withdrawn his hand from midair and awkwardly tucked it into his side. “On the edge of town?  For some of the Unabled. It's run by this really sweet lady named Dahlia, she can grow flowers on her skin, and I-” He had stammered. “I'm going to be helping out there on my Tuesday nights.  Instead of going to Powered meetings.”

Arbor had stayed stonily silent.

“So if you ever, you know, want to do something else…”  Thorne had rubbed the back of his neck. “Heck, I don’t know, man.  You’re just…” Thorne had softened. “You’re a good man, Arbor. You’re better than what you’ve been doing.”

“Get out.”  Arbor had said.

“What?”

“Get out of my house.”

“Buddy, what are you-”

“Don’t ‘buddy’ me!”  Arbor had snarled. “Years and years of friendship, and this is how you repay me?”

Throne had silently slunk to the door like a kicked dog, looking back at his friend with sad eyes.  “I’ll see you at work Monday, okay?”

Arbor had slammed the door in his face.

He had hissed in frustration, running a hand down his haggard face as he slumped against the door.  Thorne had lost it. That was the only explanation.

But his words still burrowed under his skin and stayed there, itching and squirming.  He scratched at his arm until it was pink, but the feeling didn’t go away. Because, well, Thorne was right.

It was an anti-Powerless organization.

That was why he loved it so much.

It disgusted Arbor, how entitled they were.  How they expected everyone to bow to their whims and act like they were normal people.  Because they weren't. They were lesser. They were weak. If they wanted to be treated like everyone else, they should've been like everyone else.

Arbor Price was a good man.  Good men didn’t let the world go to the dogs.  Good men did things out of love.

Which was why he stood here, now, with a microphone to his lips, a sign in his hand, and a roar in his throat.

It was the day after The Prince’s fundraising gala for that pathetic shelter, and Arbor, head of the local chapter of Powered Citizens United Corp’s events committee, had staged a demonstration.

“ARE WE GOING TO LET THESE PEOPLE CORRUPT OUR CITY?”  He roared from his spot on an overturned crate.

“NO!”  The crowd of almost two hundred and fifty roared back.

“ARE WE GOING TO LET SPECIAL PRIVILEGES TAKE OUR LIVES FROM US?”

“NO!”  They cried.

“ARE WE GOING TO LET OUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS LOSE OPPORTUNITY IN THE NAME OF ‘DIVERSITY’?”

“NO!”  They screamed.

“ARE WE GOING TO TOLERATE INJUSTICE?  ARE WE GOING TO BITE OUR TONGUES WHILE THE WORLD BURNS AROUND US?”

“NO!”  They howled.

“AND WHAT DO WE HAVE TO SAY TO THE POWERLESSES WHO THINK THAT THEY COULD EVER BE AS GOOD AS US?”

“NO!  NO! NO!”  The protesters chanted, and Arbor paused for a moment, soaking in ferocious joy that saturated the air.  He was a man in love. A man in love with himself; a man in love with the world he lived in; a man in love with his power; a man in love with the people around him, just as good and just as righteous he was.

“That’s right!”  He crowed through the megaphone.  “So let’s show these people what we’re all about!”  He gestured to the town square behind him, and raised his hand to signal the beginning of a chant as he hopped down from his makeshift stage.

“NO TIME FOR COWARDICE!”  The crowd roared.

“You know,”  A deep monotone voice whispered, almost directly in his ear.  “All of you are awful.”

“STRIKE AGAINST THE POWERLESS!”  They screamed.

Arbor spun around to meet hard, steel-gray eyes peering out from inside of a hooded jacket.  A chill ran up his spine, as if cold hands were snatching at him.

“YOU’LL NEVER TAKE POWERS AWAY!”  The words smashed through the air, ripping the midday light into shreds.

“It would be an absolute pleasure to destroy all of you,”  The tall, skeletal figure said, sounding uncomfortably truthful through the half-mask that covered his nose and mouth.  “But I only need one for now.”

“THE POWERED ARE HERE TO STAY!”

He swallowed hard, and tried to speak.  “Now, hold…” He faltered then tried again, finding his voice.  “Now hold on. Just who do you think you are?”

“NO TIME FOR COWARDICE!”  

Even over the clamor, Arbor could hear the man’s words perfectly clearly, as if everything else had drained away.  Only he, this foreboding figure, and the sense of dread becoming intimately acquainted with the bottom of his stomach existed.

“I’m someone you should probably be afraid of.”  The man said, perfectly calm.

“STRIKE AGAINST THE POWERLESS!”

Arbor tried to back away, but there were too many protesters to get anywhere in a hurry.

“YOU’LL NEVER TAKE POWERS AWAY!”

The man loomed above him, horrifyingly tall.  “There’s really not much point in resisting.”

“THE POWERED ARE HERE TO STAY!”

He was so calm, so still compared to the roaring protesters around him.  Fear spread through Arbor, filling his limbs with concrete until he was a man of stone.

He panicked.  “IT’S A POWERLESS!”  He screamed, not knowing if it was true, but knowing it would draw attention.

Sure enough, the chanting cut off, and almost every head swiveled towards their leader and the ominous man in the dark, hooded coat.

The villain sighed exasperatedly in the face of hundreds staring him down.  “You people never learn.” He stomped one of his black combat boots against the ground, and, instantly, a thick, noxious fog poured out.  Within seconds, Arbor had difficulty making out his hand, inches from his face.

“Get him!”  Someone yelled, and the protesters tried to heed the call, but mostly managed to attack each other.

Arbor thought that the sharp, stinging pain in his neck was from a thrown pebble until his knees buckled beneath him.

“Shhh,”  The deep, monotone voice assuaged him.  With great difficulty, he managed to lift his eyes to see the villain’s outline, a dark silhouette against the thick fog, tucking a hypodermic syringe into one of the many pockets on his jacket.  “It’s easier for everyone if you don’t struggle, Mr. Price.”

“What did…”  Arbor tried to blink away his blurring vision, but there were anvils stapled to his eyelids.  He tried to lift his arms, but his limbs were gelatinous. “Whadid ya do ta me…” His tongue thickened in his mouth as the fog overwhelmed his sight.

The man ignored him, and soon, the weight dragging his eyelids down overwhelmed him.  He slipped into darkness.

 

He awoke in darkness as well.

He strained his eyes wide open, but the rough scratch of an uneven piece of burlap told him he was blindfolded.  Wonderful. Wasn’t like he had plans or anything.

Arbor was irritated and a bit apprehensive, to be sure, but his overwhelming terror had been knocked away by a pounding headache.  After all, supervillains kidnapped civilians all the time. This guy would make him listen to an over dramatic speech, threaten him with a futuristic laser of some sort, tell him that he was going to be the first in the new order of humans (AKA he would become a robot), and then The Prince or some other hero would kick through the door and take the villain down.

A small gap at the bottom of his blindfold afforded him a sliver of the room he was in.  A concrete floor was littered with scrap bits of wiring and a few stray gears.

A steady, echoing patter of shoes against the hard floor told him the villain was bustling around in a relatively large area.  He heard the faint humming of various machines and his own shallow breaths as he continued to feign unconsciousness. Soft squeaking and gnawing noises made him grimace; he hated rats.

He swallowed as his body slowly voiced its complaints.  His back ached against a hard, metallic surface - not a cold one though; he’d been here long enough to warm it.  His legs were stiff and heavy, and his arms were steadily filling with pins and needles. He risked wriggling a wrist then an ankle only to find them both immobilized.  Thick, metal cuffs, by the feel of them, pinned his limbs into place against the table.

The air was saturated with the fetor of oil and sparks of electricity.

He experimentally swept his tongue out and was relieved to find no gag covering his chapped lips.  His Ability was the most important thing about him. He’d be lost without it.

“You’re awake.”  The voice was much closer than he had anticipated; he jumped, banging his limbs against the metal cuffs then hissing in pain.

“I am.”  He agreed mildly, trying to calm his pulse.  “I don’t suppose you’re going to let me out so we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen?”

The villain snorted, a cruel sound that bordered on amused.  “No.”

Arbor shrugged as best he could and tried to relax against the unyielding metal.  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I can actually.”  Arbor could just barely see the skuffed tips of combat boots halt and a long, black coat swirl to a stop through the gap at the bottom of his blindfold.  “I can blame you for a lot of things.”

Arbor gave his best attempt at a charming smile.  It fell dreadfully flat. “My conscious is clear.  I’m a good man.”

“No.”  The boots sauntered away.  “You’re not.”

The heavy sound of something being dragged across the floor grated against Arbor’s ears.

“I don’t suppose you want to explain that comment to me?”  Arbor gyrated his shoulder, trying to restore some of the blood flow to his arm.

“No.”  The villain said, then offered nothing more.

The table was warm underneath him.  He must’ve been here, unconscious for some time.  An hour, at the very least. This wasn’t right. Where was the monologue?  Where was the showmanship? Where was the hero, kicking down the door and punching the villain out?

Arbor’s headache started to fade, but fear started to flow like a dark, viscous liquid, filling the space pain left unoccupied.  It smothered him until he was drowning from the inside out.

“You’re him, aren’t you?”  Arbor didn’t know what he was going to say until the words fell from his lips; pieces of the puzzle fell into place.  His breath came in short, shallow bursts as he slowly realized the gravity of the situation. “The Savior.”

“That’s a misnomer, really.”  The villain spoke with the first emotion Arbor had heard from him: amusement.  Several switches being flipped and dials being turned punctuated his words. “It makes me seem much more benevolent than I am.”

A low, ominous humming filled the air.

“Please,”  Arbor begged, natural gravelly voice scratching his throat.  “Please, just let me go.”

The humming persisted, intensifying as the machine warmed up.

Arbor’s mind raced.  He could sound like anyone.  Who would this psycho listen to?

“Please,”  He cried out with the voice of a little girl.  “Don’t hurt me.”

The steady patter of scuffed combat boots against concrete didn’t falter.

“Just unstrap me, okay, son?”  He suggested with the voice of a creaking old man, voice paper-thin from wear.  “There’s no reason for this to go any further.”

No hesitation whatsoever.

The humming transformed into a whine, driving a needle into Arbor’s ears as his heart beat the rhythm to a terrified chant against his ribcage.   _Dead.  Man. Dead man.  Dead-man. Deadman.  Deadmandeadman. DeadmanDeadmanDEADMAN._

The voice of his boss came out.  “Come, now.” He protested, perfectly in line with Logan Abbott’s particular vocal tics.  “This entire scenario is perfectly illogical. Historically speaking, every kidnaping attempt by a villain of a civilian in the past twenty years has ended unfavorably for the perpetrator.”

The villain’s footsteps stopped in front of him.   He leaned forward until Arbor could feel his hot breath on his cheek.

“You don’t even know what you did to deserve this, do you?”  The villain’s voice was flat. “Do you even know how disgusting you are?”

A terrified whine escaped Arbor’s lips.  “I’m a good man,” He protested past the fear clawing its way around in his skull.  “I didn’t do anything to deserve this.” His voice was still overlaid with his Powerless boss’s tones.

The blindfold was violently ripped off of Arbor’s face; his head was carried forward then painfully slammed into the steel table.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the blinding light being shone directly on his face before he immediately wished that they hadn’t.  Cold, cruel gray eyes pierced him, boring straight through him and leaving stab wounds in their wake.

“No,”  The Savior insisted.  “You did everything to deserve this.”

His horror was a physical thing, flinging his eyes wide open, crushing his chest until he could only breathe with the shortest, shallowest pants, making his limbs tremble until thick, warm blood trickled down his wrists.

“Enough of that.”  The villain turned away.  “There’s no point in bleeding you yet.”

“What are…”  Arbor licked his gray, cracked lips, making sure that he still sounded like Logan Abbott.  “Whatever do you intend on doing to me?”

“Stop talking like him.”  The villain lazily instructed; his words were unhurried and undeterred, but his hand flexed at his side.  “You’re not going to get me to change my mind.”

He barely glanced at Arbor as he continued to languidly prowl around some strange machine.  It was vaguely shaped like some sort of ray, but with a larger, sleeker body and a bulbous tip protruding from the front.  It was pointed directly at him.

Everything in the room was some sort of machine: the ominous gadgets lining the walls, the monstrosity in front of him, the villain himself.  Or, if he wasn’t a machine, he certainly acted enough like one to fool any man. His words fell from his lips, clipped and precise. His steps sounded out, as regular as clockwork.  His eyes were the color of gunpowder the moment before it exploded and the steel barrel you stared down in the moments before someone pulled the trigger of a gun. Even his nails were painted silver, abiet a chipped and ragged silver.  His face was entirely expressionless, and the look he gave Arbor - so empty and cool - made Arbor wonder if, just perhaps, he had become a machine as well.

Only the constant tapping of the Savior’s hands gave him away.  He was restless, prowling around the machine and his lab like something would go terribly wrong if he was still for even a moment.

The machine's tip started to glow a sickly lime green.

Panic clutched at Arbor.  “You will unhand me at once, foul villain!”  He proclaimed with the voice of the only man left he could think of that might deter this psycho: The Prince.

The villain stumbled, shock tangling his feet in themselves.  Fear, anger, rage, regret, sorrow, so so much sorrow - emotions flashed through his eyes almost too quickly for his prisoner to identify until they settled on a sheer blankness.

“Release the civilian, Savior.”

“Stop it.”  The Savior’s voice was dead.  Something in it sent shivers down Arbor’s spine.

“How could you commit such a heinous crime, villain?”  The Prince’s voice demanded. “You are truly disgusting.”

“Stop that.”  Arbor heard a slight waver.

“Cease and desist your dreadful actions immediately and I shall elect to be lenient.”

“Stop it!”  The villain clamped his hands over his ears and screamed at him.  “STOP IT!”

“Release the civilian, and I shall spare you, pitiful creature.”  The Prince’s voice continued.

“YOU’RE NOT HIM!”  Rage slashed the villain’s face open as he howled like a mad man.  “DON’T TALK LIKE HIM!”

“Simply release him and this will all be over,”  The Prince’s voice reassured him. “Just let the poor, innocent civilian be free and it will be alright.”

“HE’S NOT!”  The Savior cried.  “HE’S NOT INNOCENT AND YOU KNOW IT!  NONE OF US ARE!”

“That’s not true, Savior.  He has done nothing wrong. Take my counsel and free him.”  The Prince’s voice sighed.

“YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE!”  The villain shrieked before the rage seemed to seep out of him.  When he spoke again he was shattered and exhausted. “You made your choice, Roman.  I don’t have one but this.”

Arbor’s forehead scrunched in confusion.  Who was Roman?

“You’re right,”  The Prince’s voice proclaimed.  “You only have one choice here: to free the civilian.  You don’t really want to hurt anyone, do you, Savior?”

The villain was silent for a long moment, and Arbor’s pulse began to pick up, a hint of hope letting itself be known.

“He would’ve called me ‘Ursl-lame.’”  The villain’s voice resonated through the large, empty room.

Confusion and panic warred inside of Arbor as The Prince’s voice scoffed.  “There’s no time to waste on silly nicknames, villain. Just free the civilian and this will all be over.”

“Or ‘Queen of heart-lessness’.” It was if the villain hadn't even heard him. His eyes were unfocused, and Arbor was confused to see moisture gathering at their edges.  His head swirled to catch Arbor in his crosshairs, teeth and ambitions bared. 

“If you're going to bother lying about who you are, you should at least be accurate.” He roughly dragged an arm across his face and stalked back to the machine.

“Stop, Stop, STOP!”  Arbor cried so ardently that the villain actually paused.  “I don’t…” Arbor faltered, desperately trying to stall for time.  Where was one of the heroes? Had anyone even noticed that he was gone?  “I don’t get to know why this is happening? What I apparently did? I…” He fished around for the voice that would work.  “I’m confused,” He confessed with the voice of the owner of that bakery downtown. “And I’m scared.”

Arbor was gratified to see the blood draining from the villain’s face, juxtaposing the villain’s gray eyeshadow even more fiercely against his milky skin.  His shoulders tensed, and his hands came together, allowing him to pick at the skin at the side of his thumb for a moment.

“I don’t know what’s happening,”  Arbor whimpered with the baker’s voice.  “And I’m just… I’m so scared.”

“Not him,”  The villain muttered, shutting his eyes tightly and clenching his hands into fists.  “Not him, not him, not him, not him.” His eyes flared open and suddenly he was as cold and unfeeling as his machines.  “You are not Logan Abbott. You are not Patton Morales. You are not The Prince.” He pushed his shoulders away from his ears and his posture became languid.

He wrapped wickedness around himself like a shaw and reminded himself that there was a reason they all believed him to be a villain.

His gun-gray eyes trained on Arbor, committing every curve of his face to memory.  “You’re Arbor Price. You’re a local chapter member of the Powered Citizens United Corp. You are an employee of the New Psyche Planetarium.  You are a bigot. You hate the Unabled and you believe in a false sense of entitlement where you are better than others because you have an Ability.”  He stroked the side of his machine lovingly before settling his hand on a lever jutting out of its side. “So I’m going to take that privilege away.” He smiled, and his eyes were dead.  “And you’ll know what it feels like to be Powerless.”

“Is that why you’re doing this?”  Arbor couldn’t help himself. He threw back his head and laughed.  “Do you actually believe that liberal drivel they’re saying about you?  That you’re ‘The Savior’? Do you actually think that you’re going to dispense justice?”  He laughed until he felt that the movement of his diaphragm, the erratic expulsion of air from his lungs was the only thing that was keeping him from sobbing.

His teeth sliced his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of copper.  He couldn’t stop laughing. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be insane: this total helplessness, this complete lack of control, this fear that oversaturated every single atom in his body until the only option was to scream it out.

The villain was going to take them.  He was going to rob him of his powers.  He was going to make him a freak. He was going to take the best thing about him away, and he honestly expected that to make a difference.

“You’re no better than I am.”  Arbor smiled with blood-stained teeth as a thick spool of red-tinged saliva trailed away from his mouth.

The villain’s lips parted.  “I know.”

He pulled the lever.

 

The villain waited for it to feel amazing.  He waited to be satisfied, for this to be some awe-inspiring, earth-shaking thing. But it wasn't.  

And he didn't.  

Instead, he found nausea and a morbid fascination clawing their ways up his throat.

The man strapped to his lab table was bleeding.

No, bleeding was too gentle a term. Bleeding was a scraped knee or a paper cut. Bleeding could be staunched. Bleeding was natural.

The man strapped to his lab table wasn't bleeding; he was having the blood ripped from his body.

It swarmed through the air in a thick galaxy, specks of abiletum sparkling against the vicious maroon void.  They swirled around the Abilities Eraser’s bulbous tip before ducking into the machine as the blood hovered, waiting for the signal to reenter the victim’s body.  But it wasn’t the movement that fascinated him, it was the exit.

Blood trickled from every available escape point - Arbor’s nose, his ears, his eyes, the pores of his skin.  It welled out, glistening sickly under the harsh lights. A flood of scarlet was torn from his flesh and flowed through the air.  

Arbor screamed.  He could feel everything inside of himself deflating, weakening, deliquescing.  He was being torn apart by the materials in his own blood.

The screaming slowly petered off; he was far too weak to do anything now but simply stare in horror as everything he loved about himself was striped away before his very eyes.

His hands were freezing, limbs growing cold as pain faded to numbness.  There wasn't enough lifeblood left in his body to feel, to act, to do anything but watch as the scarlet flood swarmed back to him.  It forced his way down his throat, seeped in through his skin, and flowed into his ears, reinstating itself into his bloodstream.

And then it was over.  From the flip of a lever to the last drop of blood flowing back into his body, it had taken less than four minutes to tear away everything he held dear.

“What did…”  Arbor rasped weakly.  “What did you do to me?”

Virgil clenched a fist behind his back and reminded himself that this was the same man who had belittled Logan then dared to speak in his voice.  Who hated the Unabled. Who had spoken like Rom- like The Prince. “I cleaned your blood. Why don’t you see for yourself what that did?”

“Release me, foul creature.”  Arbor said with The Prince’s voice, but his own raspy, gravel-flecked tones came out.

Something he didn’t want to name seized hold of his chest and squeezed until his ribs were the consistency of sawdust.

“Hello?”  He rasped, as if he could simply greet his Power and it would come rushing back.  He spoke with the voice of Mickey Mouse, his daughter’s favorite. He read her stories as different Disney characters every night.

His own voice came out.

Panic.  Overwhelming, overbearing, overtaking, panic.

His voice shook, but he tried again.  “Please.” A fruitless cry fell from his lips, fracturing into a million pieces against the warm metal table he was strapped to.  He wanted to sound like Elvis. He had sounded like Elvis when he had proposed to his wife. She had laughed and thrown her arms around him and, giggling, proclaimed that he was her “hunk’a hunk’a burnin’ love.”

He just sounded like himself.

He kept going.

“Hi.”  No.

“Please.”  No.

“I…”  No.

“Please.”  No.

 _“Please.”_  His voice, his own, gravely, raspy, stupid, loathsome, terrible, awful, dreadful, heinous voice cracked.

It was like walking into a familiar, windowless room of your home and flipping on the light switch, only the lights didn't immediately come on. You would walk forward, confident for a few strides that the old wiring of your house would just take a moment or two to catch up.  

But a moment or two would pass, and you would still find yourself in complete darkness.

Your steps would falter and you would wonder if the door had been one pace behind you or four.  A flicker of hope would still reside in your chest as you tried to persuade yourself that the light would come on at any moment now, just keep going.  After all, this is familiar territory, isn’t it? All you have to do is keep walking.

You would take a few shaking steps forward and wonder how much time had passed.  Surely it couldn’t have been longer than one or two seconds, but, no, hadn’t you just thought that a moment ago?  But, then again, who could tell in the darkness - the utter, pressing, suffocating darkness.

The objects in the familiar room would transform themselves into great beats, hulking in the shadows.  What was once so familiar and comfortable as your own home would be rendered unfathomable by fear. Nausea would rise in your throat and you would realize with a sudden jolt, as if all of your internal organs had decided to rearrange themselves, that the lights weren’t going to come back on.

They never would again.

Arbor Price thought, very clearly and with absolute certainty, that he hated the sound of his own voice.

Virgil, meanwhile, was transfixed by the residual energy of the Abilities Eraser.  The abileum had been reduced to shimmering flecks, swirling around the ray’s core. They gave off a beautiful golden light that shone brightly enough to make his eyes sting.  Without making a conscious effort to do so, he found his hand slowly rising, as if to touch it. He caught himself and stilled his hand, uneasily huffing a laugh.

But the abiletum flecks gave off such a wonderful, soothing warmth.  It felt like Virgil had always imagined fire felt like to those with a pyro Ability - playful, kindly, inviting.  He was vaguely aware that the glowing cloud before him was the remnants of Arbor Price’s Ability, but he wasn’t quite sure that he cared.

Virgil was not an idiot. He knew that abiletum was volatile and largely unfathomable.  He wasn't just going to stick his hand in it. So, he called upon his years of study and training as an engineer and elected to do what scientists had been doing with unknown substances since the beginning of time: he grabbed a nearby rod and poked the cloud with a stick.

It immediately shot away, as if repelled by touch.  Once it wasn’t around an abiletum core, however, it had no cohesive force to hold it together.  It flew through the air, away from Virgil; he and Arbor both watched with confusion and horror, respectively, as it swarmed around and sank into a small, white rat.

The rat snuffled the air with its quivering, pink nose, and then, very clearly, meowed.

Villain and prisoner stared at it, momentarily bonded through their bewilderment.

“Did that rat just… meow?”  Virgil asked.

Arbor gasped something that could’ve been agreement in a language very light on vowels.

The villain crept forward, edging towards the rat.  It looked at him and barked.

He crouched down in front of it, scrutinizing it with fascination.  “Come here, little guy,” He murmured, holding out a hand.

It squawked like a bird and obstinately scampered a few steps away.

“Come on.”  Virgil cooed at it, trying to creep closer.  His fingers brushed against its fur, but just before he lunged to grab it, the sound of an explosion ripped through the air.

Virgil swore and immeditely ducked under a lab table, bracing himself for another attack.  It wasn’t until a few moments had passed that he realized the noise hadn’t come from nearby but further downtown.

His finger tapped against his thigh as he warred with himself.

“I’m going to have to go check that out.”  He sighed, stood up, and brushed himself off, trying to act like the other man hadn’t just seen him cooing at a rat and hiding under a table.  He pulled the hypodermic syringe from his jacket and turned to Arbor, only to find the man had already passed out. “Well, that works.”

Arbor’s wife found him huddled on the doorstep, drowsy and refusing to talk.  He would go on to scratch his story out on a notepad with a shaking hand. He would make his daughter wonder why daddy had started crying when she asked him to read her a bedtime story.  He would make his wife wonder why her husband refused to go back to the planetarium, to see Logan Abbott. He would make his son wonder why his dad hadn’t said a word for days, then weeks, then years.  He would track down his elder son and beg for forgiveness. He would bring him home. He would sit quietly for hours at a time, wrestling with self-loathing and confusion and hatred and sorrow and so many emotions that he had no choice but to scrawl them out.  He would fill up pages and pages and pages with his jagged handwriting. He would tell his wife that he loved her and mean it. She would do the same.

His older son would never quite be able to look at him the same way, would never possess that level of love that a son should be able to feel for his father, but he understood him now.  He understood him in a way that would one day drive him to sit beside his father when Arbor was in one of his pensive moods.

“Do you hate me?”  He would ask quietly.  

Arbor would adamantly deny it.  

The older son would smile sadly and reach out a hand.  Arbor would take it. “Then you shouldn’t hate yourself either.”

Shortly after that, Arbor would tap out a number he had long since tried to forget, and raise the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”  Someone would say.

Arbor would open his mouth but falter.

“Um, hello?”  They would repeat.

“Hey, buddy,”  Arbor would say, voice cracking and creaking with disuse.  “That soup kitchen of yours still looking for help?”

But for now, Arbor just fell into his wife’s arms and sobbed.

 

Virgil unceremoniously dumped the man on his front porch and sped off on his hoverbike.

He zipped through back alleys, up the sides of buildings, and across rooftops, trying to find the source of the chaos.  It really wasn’t that hard. All he had to do was follow the sounds. Or rather, the utter, eerie lack of sound.

He spotted Roman - no, the name still sent thorns stabbing through his organs.  He spotted _The Prince_ racing through the streets below to the center of the anomaly.  Virgil gunned his hoverbike and trailed behind him, skimming across rooftops to avoid being seen.

The hero looked peculiar.  Heavy shadows were stamped under his eyes, his crime-fighting uniform was wrinkled, and his hair was disheveled.  Strangest of all, however, was the fact that his nails appeared to be painted sparkling gold and red.

That oddity, however, was nothing compared to the inexplicability of downtown.  Cars were smashed into each other, a building was on fire, and several people were collapsed on the street, but there was no one screaming or running in fright.  Dunes of sand drifted across the paved street like idle pedestrians. Deadly silence suffocated the city. All Virgil could hear was the shallow pants of his own ragged breathing and the soft hissing of sand sliding against sand.

The Prince slowed down below, and Virgil whipped his bike around, hiding in the shadow of a rooftop access door.

A man with a shock of navy blue hair, large aviators, a leather jacket, and a shirt that said "ironic t-shirt" stood in the middle of the chaos, casually slurping up the last sip of an overpriced Teavana drink.  

"Hay, gurl."  He dragged his vowels out as The Prince turned off his superspeed, skidding to a halt and striking a pose with a dramatic thud in the sandy plains.

"Don't cha just love what I've done with the place?"  The other man waved a hand around, indicating the streams of sand that spilled endlessly from the tops of skyscrapers, the half-buried people slumped over in the middle of the street, the fallen stop light a few feet to his left, the fires burning in the distance, striking scarlet flames against a perfect blue sky.

The Prince drew himself up to his full six feet, five inches.  "Identify yourself, you miscreant, so I may know which name I shall give when people ask who my latest conquest in battle was."

The man smirked.  "My name's Remy, boo."  He lifted one perfectly pedicured hand and pointed it dramatically at the hero.  "But they call me the Sandman." Swirling grains of sand detached themselves from the pavement and lifted into the air.

Virgil dismounted and crept to the edge of the rooftop, his heart thudding in his throat.

The Prince blurred out of the way, far too quickly for Virgil’s eyes to follow, but it was no use; sand was everywhere.  The Sandman snapped his fingers and it swarmed forward, encasing the hero, forcing itself down his ears, into his eyes, down his throat and into his lungs.  He collapsed to the floor, and the sand shifted out of him with a soft hiss. His lips parted as a soft snore emerged.

Remy strolled over and pinched his nose.  "Aw, sweet dreams, honey."

Virgil stifled a gasp, slinking back into the shadows.  A stray sand plume brushed against his legs, and Remy’s head snapped over to where the villain hid.

“There you are!”  The other villain exclaimed, grinning.  “I was hoping you’d show up.” He lowered his sunglasses, and Virgil couldn’t contain his cry of horror.

The eyes that should’ve peered at him over the aviator’s golden rims were missing.  Instead, perpetually moving, swirling orbs of sand filled the other villain’s eye sockets.  Occasionally, the sand seethed out over the sides of his eyes, giving the impression of golden tears, or more sand would drift in, but for the most part, the macabre monstrosities oscillated with no real direction or purpose.  

Virgil bit back the nausea rising in his throat.

“Gurl, you would not believe it…”  The Sandman slid his sunglasses back up and snapped his fingers, creating a golden throne of sand underneath him.  He lounged there for a moment, rivaling the Cheshire Cat with his grin. “But I am your biggest fan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Middle section summary:  
> \- There's this dude named Arbor and he is a Jerk: hates Unabled, kicked son out of house for being Powerless, member of Powered Citizens United Corp; but for some reason he insists that he's a good man  
> \- He was the dude trash-talking Logan in ch.3 and the one who started the riot in ch. 11  
> \- Virgil kidnaps Arbor in the middle of an anti-Unabled rally and takes him back to the lab  
> \- Arbor realizes that Virgil is the Savior and begs him in a variety of people's voices (he has the ability to talk like other people) to let him go including: Logan's, Roman's, and Patton's voices  
> \- Virgil has a melt down when Arbor talks like Roman and screams that no one is innocent  
> \- Virgil uses Abilities Eraser on Arbor and it's gorey  
> \- After it's over, Arbor relates losing his powers to being trapped in darkness in a familiar room  
> \- Virgil pokes the abiletum he harvested with a stick and it shoots into a rat  
> \- The rat then meows, indicating that taken Abilities can be transfered  
> \- An explosion happens downtown and Virgil dumps Arbor back at his house  
> \- Arbor becomes selectively mute, hating the sound of his own voice  
> \- He makes amends with his children and wife, and he brings his son home  
> \- His son asks Arbor if he hates him, and when he denys it, the son says that he shouldn't hate himself either  
> \- Arbor starts volunteering at a soup kitchen for the Unabled when he calls a friend he broke ties with when the friend said he was dropping out of Powered Citizens United Corp  
> \- He talks to his friend on the phone, breaking his silence and changing his ways
> 
> Sorry this took so long, I was working on a fic for the spring angst content, and this chapter fought me TOOTH AND NAIL but here we are! The next chapter will follow Roman's POV of the proposal to the end of this chapter, and there will be (marginally) less angst and some fluff, I promise.
> 
> ALSO, LOOK! IT'S REMY!! I made your fav into a villain because apparently that's what I do.
> 
> Comment below with your thoughts on if Virgil was justified in his actions or not, and your view on Arbor.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads this!
> 
> and, as always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO, COWARDS


	14. Local Prince Dude Gives up Life of Celebrity Status to Become Merman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know it's been a million years since my last update, but this chapter is also almost 15K so... deal with it.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> -Dub-con (Skip paragraph starting with “ 'Here.' Her hands were stroking his stomach" and pick back up at "He lay in bed afterwards,"  
> -Violence (Skip " '...can’t be all!' Someone snapped." through "Roman’s hand flexed at his side.")  
> -Descriptions of emotional abuse (Skip "“It’s not,” Roman blurted out." through "Roman paused, frozen, before speaking so quietly")

“Yes.”  He heard his voice say.  “Yes, of course, my love!”

Missy didn’t smile at Roman when he accepted her proposal.  She smiled for the cameras then flew to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on her tiptoes in a gesture Roman was far too familiar with.  He let his body move on auto-pilot, dipping her for a kiss anyone else would see as passionate.

He smelled blood.

When she finally released him, he could hear someone screaming, or perhaps that was just his brain howling as he wished to.  She gently grabbed his hand and slid the ring on it. He had to take several deep breaths and fight against the heat that pricked at his eyes when the band fit perfectly.

She ran her fingers over an engraving he hadn’t noticed before.   _Forever yours,_ it read.  The warmth in his eyes spilled over.

“Happy tears,”  He heard someone across the room sigh dreamily as Missy tenderly reached up and wiped them away, cupping his jaw.  She performed a choreographed dance of the girl in love to a percussional beat of camera flashes and applause.

“Come now, My Prince.”  She pressed a dazzling diamond ring into his hand.  “My turn.”

His hands were shaking so badly it took a few tries to slide the band around her petite ring finger.

“Smile, my darling!”  She hissed in his ear as she kissed his cheek.  “You’re an engaged man now, and the world is watching.”

Those words were all it took for Roman to sink back into himself, letting The Prince take over.  He watched through jaded eyes as The Prince shook hands, accepted congratulations, wrapped an arm around his fiancée’s waist.

Smile.  The world is watching.

He only slipped back into himself for a moment when he saw Thomas and Logan, staring at him with sad eyes from across the ballroom.   _I didn’t want to do it!_  He wanted to cry.   _I didn’t want to!  I don’t have another choice, don’t you understand?_

He wanted nothing more than to run to them, to forget about all of this, to ask where the villain was - oh no, had he seen that? - to beg them for sanctuary, to scream, but Missy placed a hand on his arm and introduced him to another socialite he would never remember.  When he turned to look for them again, they had been swallowed up by the crowd.

Missy curled up against his side when they made their final rounds and finally escaped to the limousine waiting outside.  She pulled her smartphone out of seemingly nowhere - seriously, how had she been able to hold it while wearing that dress? - and tapped it on.  “We’re already trending,” She announced, the small, glowing box casting odd shadows over her face. She was reduced to red lips, cheekbones, a button nose, and eyebrows.  The plane of her cheek looked jagged and sharp in the artificial glow. “Did you know our ship name is ‘Prissy’? The Prince and Missy.” The disembodied lips giggled. “How cute.”

“Wonderful,”  Roman said robotically.  He stared out the window as neon signs and yellowed streetlights peered inside the car for a moment before flashing away.

“I’m being called a feminist icon!”  Missy cheered, swiping a finger across the screen.  “Here, listen to this one: ‘how much of a literal icon is Missy Darnelle?  She gets the hottest guy on the planet and doesn’t wait around for him to propose, she does it!  Honestly, queen. #goals #prissywedding’.”

“Wonderful,”  He said again.

“You don’t look too well, my heart.”  Missy reached away from him to rummage through the limo’s bar.  “Here.” She pressed something into his hand, and he knocked it back without a second thought.

She returned to her phone, and he returned to staring at the streetlights, flashing like cameras.

Smile.  The world is watching.

They had barely gotten through the door to their penthouse before Missy was pressing herself against him.  “We’re engaged!” She crowed, giggling. “Aren’t you excited?”

Roman didn’t say anything, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“Come on, my love.”  There were suddenly hands pushing his jacket off of his shoulders and lips pressing against his neck.  “Let’s celebrate.”

“Missy, I don’t… I don’t…”  His tongue felt heavy in his mouth; his head was swimming.  His skin crawled over his bones, trying to find a comfortable position to no avail.

She was watching him with half-lidded eyes and a smirk.  “What’s the matter, my dearest love?” She laid a hand on his arm, and he stumbled after her into their bedroom.  “You don’t seem quite yourself.” She sat him down on the edge of their bed.

“I’m not.”  He tilted his head back and tried to regain his senses.

She stroked his back soothingly and tried to repress her smile.  “You must’ve had something that disagreed with you.” It had taken her long enough to find out if drugs worked on him.  “Maybe that baking? I told you it wasn’t a good idea to use that caterer.”

He didn’t respond, trying to calm his racing pulse.  

“Here.”  Her hands were stroking his stomach and moving lower.  “Let me help you feel better.”

He shook his head, feeling the moisture prick at the corners of his eyes.  “No, I don’t…”

Missy sighed and stopped, lying her head in his lap.  “Why not?” She reached for his hand and laced their fingers.  The gentle clink of gold on gold reverberated throughout Roman’s body like fingernails on a chalkboard.  “Don’t you want to make your future wife happy?”

 _Wife._  Roman sank back into himself, retreating into his own special room in his mind.  “Of course I do.” He said.

The hands were back.  “Then prove it.”

He could push her off.  Even in this addled state, he could.  He could shove her away or make a break for it before she even saw him move or hold her at bay or do anything but simply stay there.  It would be effortless.

Missy leaned forward, brushing the shell of his ear with her ruby-painted lips.  “You might as well get used to it. You’ll be my husband soon, after all.”

It wasn’t like he really had another choice.  He never did.

He tilted his head back and let it happen.

He lay in bed afterwards, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes as Missy slumbered gently against his side.  He couldn’t stay here. He’d go mad if he did.

Ever so slowly, he edged away from Missy, his heart lurching with every squeak of the mattress and his breath catching every time she stirred.  He dressed in darkness, throwing on his Prince uniform. He need to go patrolling.

“You can’t leave me, don’t you know that?”

He turned to see her, propped up on her elbows and smiling at him as if he was a trained animal who had just performed a particularly amusing trick.

“What was it that you thought?  They’ll crucify you on a cross of gold if you do.”  Her pale body shone in the moonlight. She was ethereal.  “You’re my fiancé, dear.  I’m the only one who’ll ever love you like this.”

He swallowed hard.  “I know.”

She smiled gently and lay back down.  “Good.”

When Roman got outside, he started running.  He had never before bothered to check his top speed; he just knew that he hadn’t reached it yet.  Well, now was as good of a time as ever.

He blazed past the towering skyscrapers of New Psyche, watching as the road beneath his feet turned from black asphalt to cracked gray concrete to a white sandy beach.  The suburbs had already blurred away from him, and he found himself running faster than any passersby could see along the Florida coast, towards the peninsula’s end. His heartbeat almost drowned out the sound of his ragged howls as he screamed into the unfeeling, uncaring sky.  The universe, mostly void, partly star, looked down at the silly human with sweat dripping down his brow and sand being flung up in his wake, and it laughed.

Roman didn’t stop when he saw the cliff before him.  He pushed down and ran even deeper, kicking up sand and winds.  What was it going to do, kill him? He lept off.

For a moment, weightlessness.

Then the dark sea rushed up to greet him, and he sucked in a deep breath.  He opened his eyes and lazily watched as bubbles streamed to the surface, racing each other to first reach the moon, rendered into a murky green light.  Schools of fish swarmed him, playfully peppering him with open-mouthed kisses and batting their fins against him. He sank to the bottom, curled up with his knees tucked to his chest as he settled on the sands, compacted by almost a hundred pounds of water pressure.

He was a man of iron and steel.  His lungs didn’t burn from a lack of air; he wouldn’t need it for a long time.  Maybe if he stayed down here long enough, he’d be lucky enough to rust, his skin turning red and brittle as he let the soothing crash of waves drown out the screaming of his mind.  He could be happy here, staring at the green moon and making friends with the fish. It was certainly nice enough at the bottom of the ocean. The water swaddled his skin, grains of salt embedded in silk.  He could feel every stray piece of debris and every miniscule air bubble that danced along his armored skin. Sounds traveled better in water as well; a few miles away, a crab was skittering along its way, dragging its shell over a piece of coral.

The overwhelming stench and taste of salt weren’t exactly ideal, but he could make do.

He’d become a mysterious sea monster, only seen by local children and wizened old fishermen.  He’d be good at playing up the terror of it; he had wanted to be an actor when he was little, after all.

And didn’t he have a kinship to this ocean?  Only two generations ago, his abuelos had climbed into rickety rafts and sailed the ninety miles from Cuba to the United States.  Maybe they had landed on the very beach he had just leapt from.

He let himself entertain the fantasy for a moment longer as his fingers trailed through intriguingly slimy seaweed.  There was no world to smile for at the bottom of the ocean, but, then again, there was no audience to dazzle either.

Besides, he had things to do up there.

He pushed off against the silty bottom and shot through the surface, gasping as his lungs drank in sweet, sweet night air.  It tasted of salt and honeysuckle and moonlight.

He floated in the ocean for a few moments longer, vaguely aware that he was completely wrecking his uniform but not quite caring.  It seemed irrelevant in the constant ebb and flow of the waves, gently rocking him from side to side.

Eventually, however, he ducked beneath the surface, kicking his feet.  He was almost five miles out; he made it to the shore in just under thirty seconds.

A laugh escaped as he collapsed, boneless on the sand.  He was okay. He’d be okay. Adrenaline from the chill of the water was flooding his veins, the moonlight filled him with a recklessness daylight could never inspire, and his fingers were tapping restlessly at his sides.  Suddenly, Roman wanted nothing more than to get in a fight.

On a night like tonight, he had no trouble believing he could find one.

He stood, brushed himself off, finger-combed his hair, and broke back into a run.  Miles flew by in increasingly larger increments as he pushed himself, faster, faster, faster, until, in the moment between one heartbeat and the next, the lights of New Psyche changed from a faint twinkle in the distance to a living, breathing organism he was a part of.  Salt water was left ages behind as his speed stripped the brine from his sticky clothes.

His body knew the city almost as well as his mind did.  They worked in perfect tandem, rounding corners, leaping over barbed fences, kicking off of one building only to flip off of the next and then back to the first as he climbed higher and higher into the night.  He stopped at the top of the Fossa Tower, the tallest building in the state.

Stars weren't visible to most people this deep in the city; even Roman had trouble making them out.  But they were still there, his friends, the witnesses to all of his pains, his constant companions. They looked so close.  Roman reached out a hand, sure he could touch them, but only found dead air.

He settled on the edge of the sloped roof and closed his eyes, letting his other senses take over until he was defined by the things around him, fading into the city as it whispered to him all it knew.  The smell of chinese take-out - an awkward first date. The sound of a dog scratching at a door - a midnight walk. The taste of oil on the air - a broken-down car.

Quickening footsteps, an accelerating heartbeat, the smell of fear, a scuffle, an aborted scream - Roman’s eyes snapped open as a dazzling grin spread across his face - a fight.

He skid six-hundred and twelve feet down the side of Fossa Tower, one hand and both feet against the glass.  He jumped when he reached the last few hundred and hit the ground running.

“...can’t be all!”  Someone snapped. “C’mon, what else ya got?”

They were five blocks to the west, in a mildewy alley.  Roman was there in ten seconds flat, arriving at the alley entrance just as a young woman was sobbing “That’s it, I swear!”  She was pinned against the grimy wall to a run-down building by a man easily half a foot taller from her. He was pressing a gun into her stomach with one hand and rifling through a black duffle bag with the other.

“All that’s in here is spray paint!”  The man spat, throwing the sack to the ground.  “Where’s the cash, girlie?”

She shook her head desperately.  “I don’t have anything else with me.”

The mugger’s eyes caught on the blue devices clipped to both of her ears.  “Well, what about these?” He snatched them from her, and she curled back, sobbing.

“Well.”  The Prince’s sonorous voice rang out, sending ice water down the criminal’s spine.  “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

The mugger swore, grabbing the woman and pulling her in front of him as he aimed the gun at the hero, dramatically framed by the yellowing light streaming in from the road.

Roman resisted the urge to crack up.

“Get outta here,”  The mugger tried to command, but only managed to reveal how badly his voice was shaking.

Roman took a moment to seize his opponent up.  He was a large, burly man. If Roman was anyone else, he would’ve called him massive.  The way he held the gun suggested he was more than familiar with it, and the deep, steady breaths he was taking indicated he was gearing up for a fight.  His gun had a silencer; he was used to violence.

There wasn’t much he could do about his invulnerability, but Roman had always believed in a relatively even playing field.  He mentally set his handicaps: no offensive superspeed, minimal strength, no breaking bones.

The woman whimpered, and the man roughly jerked her.

Well, maybe a few broken bones.

A grin flickered across The Prince’s face.

This was going to be fun.

He held up his hands placatingly and slowly stalked forward, not quite managing to hide his smile.  “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

The mugger fired his gun.

The Prince caught the bullet on instinct, crushing it in his palm and letting the twisted shell clatter to the floor.  He mentally frowned at himself. Bad Roman. No offensive superspeed.

“You knave!”  He gasped. “Here I am offering a civil denouement to our crisis and you fire upon me?  How heinously d-”

The man shot again.

The Prince twisted out of the way, watching with interest as the bullet crept past his face.  Honestly, how did other people live so slowly?

He snapped back into place and glowered.  The brute didn’t even bother to let him finish his monologue.  Now that was just rude.

“You could’ve at least--”

Another volley of gunfire cut him off _again._  Ugh, his usual witty banter with the villain had absolutely ruined him for anyone else.  His body twisted on instinct as his mind drifted. Common criminals could at least put in the effort.

Then again, Roman thought, with a pain that weapons could never offer him, it was unlikely that anyone could match that sharp tongue.

It took Roman a moment to realize that the slight ping over his heart was a bullet and not merely the pangs of pining over something that he knew could never be.  Something he had rightfully put a stop to, before they were both destroyed.

The bullet bounced off of his chest, ripping a hole in his uniform before clattering to the pavement.

Roman plucked it off of the ground and examined it.  It had been crushed into a perfect, flat disk between his skin and its own force.  He grinned beautifically.

That was enough of wandering thoughts.  Now was the time for battle.

“Ooh,”  He cooed.  “That tickled.”

The mugger’s eyes were wild as he jabbed the gun into the woman’s side.  “Back off!” He snarled, wrapping an arm across her throat and plastering her to his front.  Her legs flailed helplessly in the air. “Let me go or I’ll kill her!”

“What is he saying?”  The woman asked, volume dipping wildly.  “What’s he saying?”

Roman ignored her, making eye contact with the mugger and ensuring there was no mistaking his words when he spoke.  “Okay.” His hand fiddled at his side, first index and thumb out, then the thumb jutted, a fist, a surfer sign.

“What?”  Surprise made the man waver for a moment before he redoubled.  “I mean it! I’ll kill her!”

Roman shrugged.  “Go for it.” Index finger pointing, a flat palm with fingers curved in, a fist, index finger pointing.

“I will!  I mean it!”

“Cool.”  Thumb under two fingers, a loose circle, three fingers flicked out.

The sound of the woman’s heartbeat was deafening to The Prince.  That is, until he heard the faint puff of a gun with a silencer being fired.

Her body slumped to the ground.

“Why…”  The man looked at The Prince with frightened, confused eyes.  “Why would you let me do that? I thought you were supposed to be the hero.”

“Oh, I am sometimes.”  Roman cooly looked down at the woman’s slumped body and blinked slowly, lazily at her glazed eyes.  “But sometimes I prefer to be an actor.”

The woman shot up and scrambled to the hero, hiding behind him.  His gaze followed her for a moment before it snapped back to her assaulter.  The Prince shrugged cockily, a grin licking at the corners of his mouth. “You were out of bullets.”

The mugger snarled and threw the gun somewhere behind him.  (Roman made a mental note to find and destroy it later.) He stalked forward, but hesitated, common sense warring with his anger.  

Roman smiled.  “Here, I’ll cut you a deal.”  He reached up to lace the fingers of his right hand through the bottom of a low-slung fire escape balcony.  “This hand will stay exactly where it is the entire time, okay?”

The mugger growled.  “You cocky son of a-”

Roman sighed dramatically, cutting the foul-mouthed peasant off.  “If I had a dollar for everytime someone called me that, I’d have enough money to hire someone to come up with better insults for you, you rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril.”

The mugger, enticed, threw his self-preservation away and himself forward.  He lunged for the hero, swinging a fist.

The Prince neatly dodged it, then laughed.  “Come on.” His eyes glinted dangerously. “I was hoping for a challenge here.”

Neither of them were paying attention, but the young woman had hidden herself away in a dark corner, watching the madman and the criminal spar.

The criminal threw another punch, but Roman deflected it with his forearm.  The criminal howled in pain as Roman delivered a kick to his side. He retreated, watching the hero with dark, wary eyes.

Roman smirked.  “Where ya going, hot stuff?”  He wriggled his right hand, still trapped in the fire escape, meaningfully.  “I’m not done with you yet.”

The criminal lurched forward, trying to catch the hero off guard.  Roman let him get in a few punches to his torso - they hurt the other man more than him - before he began smoothly twisting out of the way again, the jabs becoming no more than glancing blows.

The mugger started to attack Roman’s immobilized arm, and excitement struck lightning through the hero’s veins.  “Not as dumb as you look, huh?”

The criminal was breathing heavily, but he ducked down to dodge Roman’s punch anyway.  He charged forward, bent as if to drive his shoulder into the hero’s chest. Well, that wouldn’t do.

Roman gripped the fire escape even more tightly and pulled himself into the air the split second before the mugger made contact.  He warbled past, carried by his own momentum, but Roman shot out his legs and wrapped them around the other man’s torso. The hero squeezed until the mugger was gasping for breath, then he let him go.

A thin sheen of sweat coated the mugger’s brow, and Roman realized with some disappointment that his opponent was getting winded already.  The criminal was edging away warily, pain and several cracked ribs knocking the common sense back into him.

“No one ever lets me have fun anymore,”  Roman sighed.

Then, he punched the mugger in the face.

The criminal flew through the air, slamming against a dumpster with a terrific clamor.  Roman listened closely to his breathing, the pulse of his blood, the way bone fragments grated against each other.

The criminal had three cracked ribs, a hairline fracture in his arm, a broken nose, a mild concussion, and several lovely bruises forming, but it was nothing he couldn’t recover from relatively quickly.

Roman allowed a small, cocky grin to spread across his face.  His hand had never left the fire escape.

“Well, you miscreant.”  Roman relaxed his hand and pulled it back to his side as he stalked towards the criminal.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The mugger gently touched the edge of his bloody nose and shook his head, garbling a nasty laugh.  “You don’t know what it’s like out here for us on the streets, man. You live in your penthouse and the whole world loves you while we rot.  This is the only way for me to make a living.”

Roman’s hand flexed at his side.  “I know more about that than you think.”

He effortlessly threw the man over his shoulder and ran to the nearest police station, making it in five seconds flat.  “This is a mugger, total bad guy, please lock him up, blah blah blah.” He proclaimed, dumping the man - queasy from superspeed - on the floor.

The precinct seemed to hold still for a moment, wide eyes staring at the sudden advent of their Prince.  A coffee mug slipped from someone’s hands, shattering on the ground.

“Oh,”  Roman mentioned.  “He also probably needs someone to look at his arm.”

Still, no one moved.

Roman internally groaned and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  It wasn’t that he blamed everyone for immediately being bowled over by his magnificent presence, it was just that it was a tad inconvenient at times.  “You,” He said, pointing to a police officer at random. It was a young kid, probably a rookie, with dark, eager eyes, and an open, kindly face. “Cuff him and get him to medical, okay?”

The rookie immediately shot up and rushed over to cuff the criminal, reciting his miranda rights with a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear.  “Oh my gosh,” Roman heard the kid say as he led the criminal away. “Rosa is never going to believe this.”

Roman looked around the precinct.  “Everything gucci?”

“Y-yes, My Prince.”  An officer found their voice.  “Everything is… fine.”

“Cool.”  Roman shot them a two-fingered salute and was gone before they could blink.

“Holy crap.”  Officer Nam-gi Paek pressed a hand into his chest, futilely trying to calm his racing heart.  “I’m so gay.”

No one could disagree with that particular sentiment.

As he was running through the night, back to the dingy alleyway, Roman was aware that he hadn’t exactly given off the most ‘Princely’ impression back there, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  There was something more important that needed tending to.

“Hey,”  He said softly, crouching a comfortable distance away from the young woman, still curled up on the ground in a dark corner.  “Are you okay?”

She just looked at him helplessly and shook her head.  “I don’t know what you’re…” She trailed off, unsure if she was making sense or if a string of jargon had just left her mouth.

“Oh!”  Roman could have smacked himself for forgetting.  “I’m so sorry.” He arose and scanned the alley until he found the small blue devices the woman needed.  “Here.” He gently dropped her hearing aids into her palm.

She reattached them with shaking hands and sighed in relief when they were back in place.  “Thank you.”

Roman flashed her a grin.  “Well, my lady, what do you say we get off of this filthy ground? I’m sure it’s absolutely wrecking my uniform, and a Prince has got to slay.”

A hesitant grin grew to match his as the woman took the hand Roman offered.

“And might I have the pleasure of knowing the fair maiden's name?”

She smiled at him shyly as he pulled her to her feel.  “Navya. Navya Patel.”

“Well, then, Ms. Navya.”  Roman dramatically pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.  “Might I say what an honor it is to rescue such a gentle lady as yourself.”

“Thank you, My Prince.”  She murmured softly, a hand continuously coming up to her hearing-aids, as if to ensure that they were still there.

A stab of malcontent pierced Roman.  “My name is actually Roman.” Navya stayed silent, looking at him with dark, confused eyes.  “Did... you know that?”

Her face dropped down.  “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, My Prince.”

“No, don’t be.”  The breezy way Roman waved his hand was a stark contrast to the hungry thing in his chest, back it again, gnawing at the space behind his ribs.  “I expected as much.”

“That was very clever.”  She broke the silence that threatened to become awkward.  “What you did when... that man had me.” She picked up her discarded duffle bag, riffling through it to ensure everything was still there.  “How did you know that I was deaf?”

He shrugged.  “I saw him take your hearing aids.”  Roman frowned. “What were you doing out here anyway?  New Psyche isn’t exactly known for its sparkling reputation of civic virtue.”

“I know,”  She sighed, twisting a silver ring around her finger.  “But look,” She said, gesturing at a section of graffiti on the wall behind them depicting a broken, black crown.  Her face glowed with joy and pride.

“It’s…”  Roman struggled to find something to say, but he didn’t know how to state the odd twisting in his chest.  “Certainly unique.”

Navya grinned up at him.  “I know it doesn’t look like much now, but watch this.”  She placed one of her hands against the cracked brick facade.

Roman’s eyes widened as he staggered back.  “Holy...”

The black spray paint moved across the fractured wall, twisting and writhing like a living animal as more and more colors blossomed from it.  The broken, black crown was repaired and began to glow a bright gold as wildflowers blossomed from its tips. In the background, garish red brick was overtaken by a navy sky, interrupted by the curling tendrils of the universe.

Navya ducked down and nabbed a can of red and a can of white paint.  Hooking the neck of her oversized hoodie over her mouth, she wielded the cans, one in each hand, to create a blur, streaking through the endless galaxy.

She stepped back and all of it began to undo itself.

“It’s kinda like stop-motion animation,”  She explained as Roman gaped at the paint, retreating back into the once-again broken crown.  “I’ve got to work frame-by-frame.” She smiled at the wall fondly. “I’ve been working on this one for just about four weeks now, but I think it’s done.”

“That is magnificent!”  Roman exclaimed, leaning closer to examine the mural as it faded away.

Every single petal of the flowers was rendered in excruciating detail, giving the impression of depth as they swayed slightly in an imaginary breeze.  Nebulas and galaxies pulsed and swarmed like a flight of multi-colored fireflies. The red-and-white streak was stationary for one moment, then moved to another side of the mural almost instantly.  When it paused again, Roman realized with a start that it was him.

Navya spritzed her hand with the white paint and pressed it against the decrepit wall.  A pearly handprint was left in its wake, and she gestured to it with a tilt of her head.  “Go on.”

Roman curiously reached forward and pressed his fingertips against the handprint.  To his surprise, it was already dry.

The paint awoke at his touch, flowers blooming, crown shining, endless galaxy growing, and red-and-white streak blurring across the navy sky.

“You do realize that I can’t fly, right?”  He smiled at her as she zipped up her black duffle, slinging it over her shoulder.  Behind them, the paint retreated into its resting state once more.

She shrugged.  “Artistic licence.  Besides, every hero deserves to be recognized.”  She gazed reverently at the broken black crown.

Roman suddenly registered why the grafiti had struck him like lightning the first time he saw it.  “It’s his mark, isn’t it?” The starving hollowness in his chest started gnawing with fevor, increasing the ever-widening chasm hiding behind his ribs.  “The Savior.”

Navya flushed, ducking her head.  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I know that’s weird and you’re probably kinda mad at me now, but I’m actually a fan?  Of his? A bunch of people are?” Her hands started to nervously flutter. “Oh man that sounds so incriminating and you’re his nemesis but like I am really a fan of you both because you’re you and hesayssomeprettylegitstuffandithinkitneedsmoreattentionohgodI’msosorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”  Roman held up a placating hand as he chewed on his bottom lip, weighing his next words carefully.  “I am as well, actually. A… fan.”

Navya peered up at him from behind her curtain of thick, dark hair.  “Really?”

“Well, I obviously don’t condone robbing banks and blowing up statues of people as gorgeous as I-”  He shot Navya a grin, and she giggled, tension slowly ebbing from her stance. “But, yeah.” The air felt thicker.  Roman swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “He’s pretty amazing.”

The chiming of distant bells startled them both, and Navya slung her black duffle over her shoulder, gripping the strap with both hands.  “Congratulations, by the way,” She said. “I’m sorry for dragging you away from your fianceé tonight.”

Roman had almost been able to forget about the golden band on his left hand, somehow heavier than any other object he had ever been able to lift.  “Thank you,” He said, because that’s what you do when someone congratulates you on getting engaged.

“You’re welcome,”  She said, because societal customs demanded it and because she didn’t know that Missy was… Missy.

“Will you be okay getting home?” Roman asked.

“I'll be fine,” She assuaged him, and she was.

Roman found himself, once again, useless.  He didn't feel like running, but there was no way he was going back to the penthouse.  His energy had been sapped by the gold band on his finger, dragging him to the ground, through the concrete, until he was moldering under the ground with dirt under his fingernails and worms nosing around in his ears.

So, he started walking, dragging his thousand-ton burden behind him.  His feet carried him through the streets of New Psyche without purpose.  He occasionally sped up the side of a building or flipped over a fence to avoid being seen, but for the most part, he ambled along mindlessly.  He thought that the streets looked familiar, but it wasn't until he found himself in front of a cheerful purple building that he realized where he had carried himself.  He huffed out a half-laugh. “Of course.”

Despite it being almost three in the morning, all the light in the building were turned on, streaming a warm, golden glow out into the street.  He stood, looking through the window of Bake My Day, watching Patton lean over the counter to flirt with Logan. A small smile danced on the edge of the astronomer’s lips as the baker very obviously cracked another pun, but he hid it with a bite of muffin and a snarky comment.  They looked so happy. Roman wondered why the villain wasn't with them. How much of the proposal had he seen?

No.  Roman wrenched his mind away from that particular train of thought with a brutal jerk.  He and the villain… he had put a stop to it for a reason.

Inside, Patton was giggling at something Logan had said, and he was coming around to sit beside the astronomer on the bakery's swivel stools.  They sat so close, knees gently knocking together as their voices melded into a low murmur. A tugging in Roman's chest pulled him closer to the window, but the appearance of a haggard man stopped him in his tracks.

He hardly recognized his reflection, faded out by the glassy shine of the widow and light from the bakery.  He was a mess. His face was long and drawn with shadows stamped under his eyes. His hair was mussed from running across half of Florida, and his uniform was rumpled from his impromptu sea-floor visit.  A rip from where the mugger’s bullet had pierced his uniform gaped open, and Roman realized with a sickening twist that he could see the names stamped into his skin. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet.

He saw them all.  The haggard ghost-man reflected in the glass and Logan and Patton, still sitting so close together that their knees knocked gently against each other.  A golden sparkle drew his eye, and he saw the ring on the man in the glass’s finger. Patton and Logan looked so happy.

Roman finger-combed his hair and swallowed.  He wasn't about to ruin their night. He turned away and began to trudge home.  Missy was waiting for him.

The cheerful jangling of a bell shattered his gloomy train of thought.  

“Kiddo!”  A voice called out to him.  “Where do you think you're going?”

Roman turned back to see Patton Morales, freckle-faced and grinning, holding the door open in invitation.

 

Kaimi groaned aloud when her mind’s eye activated, letting her know that somewhere, someone was looking at a picture of her.  Now that she was off-air, her Ability had been active less and less - not counting the times that she was in public. Besides the occasional old friend now faded into acquaintance flipping through their high school yearbook or journalism student, her Ability didn’t just go off randomly.  Unfortunately, Kaimi had far too much experience with the kind of creepy people who liked to google her photos at night.

She shuddered.

But as the image in her mind came into focus, however, she was surprised to see one cowgirl vigilante, sitting in a nondescript room and holding a piece of paper with a series of symbols on it.  Kaimi scrunched her forehead in confusion, closing her physical eyes in an attempt to get a better look. **I know the usual rule is three days,** blue ink read in chicken-scratch handwriting. **But you can’t exactly blame a gal for wanting to see you again.**  Underneath that was a sequence of numbers, which Calamity gestured at, winking at the picture of Kaimi.

Only the knowledge that the other woman couldn’t see her kept Kaimi from burying her face in her hands to hide her blush.  This was ridiculous. Kaimi was a busy woman. She didn’t have time for any distractions, what with her recently wrecking her entire life and starting up a mildly illegal newspaper.  It wasn’t as if she was lacking for a social circle. She had Logan (who was a good roommate, even if he did hog the bathroom, but an awkward friend. Were they even friends anymore? Partners? Two tragic people, forever bonded through a disaster?).  Plus, she had bonded with Patton during the riot (even if they hadn’t really talked much afterwards). Furthermore, she was sure she would befriend that Virgil Logan was always sighing about (even if they hadn’t yet met).

Her social circle was quite full, thank you very much.

Not to mention, Calamity had shot her.  That was just rude.

A scowl creasing her heated face, the reporter grabbed her phone and typed in the number. _No._ She sent and resolved to leave it at that.

The vigilante physically lit up when her phone buzzed; she smirked at the picture and mouthed ‘I knew you couldn't resist me, ‘lil darlin’.  Well, that or, ‘Hi true blue prudent I like chocolate’. Kaimi wasn't that great at reading lips.

Kaimi felt a strange ping in her chest when the vigilante deflated at the message, the smirk falling from her red-painted lips.  She looked directly at Kaimi’s picture, and something inside of the journalist jumped at the intimacy of the one-sided eye contact.

Calamity held up a finger then looked away, cutting off Kaimi’s mental view of her.  The reporter waited for a moment then scolded herself for waiting then wondered why she was scolding herself; it wasn’t like she actually cared or anything.

Regardless, a small smile that took far too long to wipe from her face appeared when the other woman popped back up in her mental eye.  The vigilante was holding, of all things, a whiteboard.

 **You’re breaking my poor little heart here, doll** , It read as Calamity fluidly twirled the marker through her fingers.

 _Yeah, well,_  Kaimi fired back.   _Forgive me for not seeing how.  You hardly know me._

The vigilante shrugged, scribbling on the board again.   **You got me there, but it ain’t that loony to think I’d like to get to know ya better.**  She capped the marker with a challenging eyebrow arch.

Kaimi scowled at her phone.   _Why are you still using that stupid whiteboard?  Just text._

Calamity smirked as she wiped the board clean with her sleeve, uncapping the marker with her teeth in an unfairly attractive move.   **It’s the iconic move, isn’t it?**  She wrote, holding up the board for Kaimi to see.   **Holding up signs for the girl you like.**

There was that stupid ping again, as if someone had filled a syringe with adrenaline and excitement and embarrassment all at once and injected it directly into Kaimi’s bloodstream.   _Can you please just leave me alone?_ She typed furiously. _My life is kind of a mess right now, and I don’t need anymore ‘calamities’ to add to my disaster._  She hit send before she could rethink.

This time, the smirk didn’t return to the vigilante’s lips.  She swallowed and leaned forward, exiting out of the tab with Kaimi’s picture and cutting off the reporter’s mental view.

The disappointment welling up in Kaimi’s stomach had no place there.  She had literally just said she didn’t need anything else to add to her mess of a life.  Because she really didn’t.

That didn’t stop her heart from leaping when her phone buzzed.   **First of all, I do declare that that was a solid play on words.**

The message bubble in the corner wavered, as if Calamity was typing and erasing and typing again.   **I’ll leave you alone if you you’re not interested, peach.  I just want to let you know I am, in case you change your mind.**

Kaimi deleted the conversation, but she couldn’t bring herself to erase the number.  She groaned, flopping on her back on the couch of Logan’s - and her, she reminded herself.  She lived here too, even if she only felt like an intruder - living room. Confusion and logic and daydreams warred inside of her until she had no option but to grab a heavily embroidered pillow and shriek into it.

Why had Allah deemed that she would be too gay to function?  Why?

“Kaimi?” Logan's voice startled her, and Kaimi, suddenly, was acutely aware of the face that she was lying prone on the couch, screaming into a pillow that she had pressed over her face.  Well.

“Hey, Logan.”  Her voice was muffled by the pillow still obscuring her features.

Fingers gently tapped her legs, and Kaimi swung them out of the way.  The couch dipped and squeaked as Logan’s weight settled next to her. “Might I inquire as to the nature of your… peculiar position?”

“Well, originally it was so I could scream without bugging you, but now I'm just trying to hide my shame.”  The journalist situated the pillow more firmly over her face, ignoring the way the embroidery dug uncomfortably into her cheek.

“I see.”  The astronomer's voice was colored with a hesitant amusement. “And do you intend on removing the obstruction to your respiratory pathway?”

“Nope.”  Kaimi popped the ‘p’.  “I'm committed. Let me slowly asphyxiate in peace.”

“Well, that won't do.  I can't let my… oldest friend suffocate, especially when I was going to ask her if she wanted anything from Bake My Day.”

The pause was only brief, no more than half of a second, but it was sufficient to let something heavy settle on Kaimi’s chest and refuse to get off.  She slowly removed the pillow and sat up, rubbing at the diamonds the geometric embroidery had stamped into her face. “You would've called me your best friend, once.”

This time, the pause lasted for an eternity, years and ages and eons compacted into no more than two seconds.  Logan stared at the denim of his dark blue jeans as if they held a script he had forgotten to read beforehand. “I know,” He murmured quietly.  “I would have.” He cleared his throat, wiping away his soft inflections. “That was, however, quite some time ago. Not to mention, that role is very much filled by Patton and Virgil presently.”

Kaimi snorted despite herself.  “Those two are more than that.”

Logan rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.  “I'm different than the person you knew, Kaimi.”  He deflected as darkness flashed over his face, lingering in the set of his jaw, the curl to his lips, the angle of his eyebrows.

Kaimi’s heart ached.  She reached out and put a comforting hand on his arm.  “Anyone would be,” She reassured him.

“I hardly recognize myself anymore,” He confessed quietly.  “Risk taking was always the thing you and my mother did.” He groaned, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

She laughed bitterly. “What _happened_ to us, Logan?”

His mouth shaped into a gnarled twist.  “A burned-down house and a murder ruled as suicide.”  He shrugged her hand off. “I'll see you later.” He rose and strolled to the door.

Suddenly, she knew that she couldn't let him walk out that door like this.  “Hey, Logan,” Kaimi called.

He paused, turning around in the doorway.

“Do you…” She steeled herself.  This was Logan. It was fine. “Do you want to show me around the planetarium tomorrow?  If you want to.” She fiddled with her teal sleeve, suddenly bashful. “I've never been before, and I know how much you love it so…”

“Are you sure?” The astronomer’s ginger tone couldn't dim the happiness lighting up his face. “You've never been much one for the skies.”

The reporter shrugged and ducked her head.  “I want to spend time with you. I'd like to get back to where we were before,” She told her hands, not daring to look up.  “I know you say you're different, but I am too. I mean, I was just kinda flirting with the girl who shot me!”

“...What?”

Kaimi laughed helplessly.  “Long story.” She dared to peak up at him through her eyelashes.  “So?”

“I don't know if we can ever get back to where we were,” He said, fingering at the groove in the doorway.

“Oh,”  She deflated.

“However,”  He amended. “Maybe we can get somewhere better than here.”

“Somewhere better,” She repeated, a small, hesitant smile gracing her face. “I think I'd like that.”

An equally hesitant, equally small smile curled Logan's lips.  “I quite concur.” Then, he was gone.

Kaimi rose from her seat, suddenly unable to sit still.  She roamed on sock-padded feet into Logan’s kitchen, poking through his shelves of jelly, looking at the notes of swirling, looping cursive attached to the side of the refrigerator, dancing her fingers along the dark oak cabinets.  She wandered back into the living room, sighing at his tomes of dry scientific research, smiling at his Agatha Christie novels, wrinkling her nose at the archaic tape recorder that sat in a dusty corner.

Everything was Logan.  Everything was someone she used to know.  

She went into the bathroom, feeling more an intruder than ever as she gazed at his toothpaste and toothbrush, lined up in perfect parallel lines on the countertop.

She lived here, but this wasn’t her home.  She was an invader Logan had never asked for.  No one had asked for her, but she was in the story regardless.

She was walking to her room when she saw it.  Logan had left the door to his room cracked open ever-so-slightly.  Through the gap, she could just see the pictures taped to the wood paneling on the hutch of his desk.  One was a picture of Logan, Patton, and someone that must’ve been Virgil. Patton was beaming his sunny grin at the camera, arms wrapped around the men on either side of him.  Virgil had been caught mid eyeroll, looking somewhere out of frame; a small, pleased smile danced on his lips, and he was holding Patton, his arm over the baker’s shoulders to lace his fingers together with Logan’s.  Logan wasn’t looking at the camera. Instead, he was gazing at Patton and Virgil with such tenderness, Kaimi felt as if she had no right to even be near the picture.

She was turning away to escape to the guest room when she suddenly realized who was in the other picture.  Professor Abbott, an amazonian of a woman with long, natural curls and vivacious brown eyes, was smiling at the student reaching out to shake her hand as she handed the cap-and-gown-and-hijab clad student a ribbon-bound scroll.  In the background, fuzzy but still discernible, Logan was applauding with a blinding grin on his face as he watched his mother hand Kaimi her diploma.

Kaimi clamped a hand over her mouth.  That was her. That was her official graduation photo.  That was her graduation photo, curled with an age indicating it had been in its present position for a while, taped onto Logan’s desk.

Heat pricked at the corner of her eyes even as a smile broke out on her face.

Maybe they really could get somewhere better.

Kaimi left and flopped onto her bed, a warm glow on her chest curling up and purring like a cat. She flipped onto her side and considered her phone, nibbling on her bottom lip.

It would be a lie to say that Calamity was conventally beautiful.  She barely bordered on pretty, if one was being painfully honest. There was something about the sharpness of her features - far from conventionally attractive - that seemed to ward off any comparison to a sunset or the sparkling stars or the ocean.  She cut a strong, boxy figure, composed of corded muscle and sinew.

She was hardly charming either.  Sure she had the whole stupidly attractive southern belle persona going for her, but something (being _shot_ ) made Kaimi think she was less ladylike than she would have others believe.  

Striking seemed a better term.  She was striking in the way that, once Kaimi had interacted with her once, it was hard for the reporter to get her out of her head.  (Although, to be fair, the fact that the vigilante kept abusing Kaimi’s ability to send messages and waggle her eyebrows may have had something to do with that.)  She was striking in the same way that a match was striking: mesmerizing and dangerous. She was an unpleasant truth, one that opened your eyes and made you do stupid things like quit your job on live television.

But the Truth was always the one thing that Kaimi adored.

 _Taking risks was always the thing you and my mother did._  

Logan was right, they had changed.  She missed the idealist girl who believed that everything would be okay, as long as you told the truth.  She missed the snarky boy who had known who he was and what his future held.

But, even if she was a different woman now, she didn’t have to forget the girl she used to be.

 _Hey,_ Kaimi typed and sent before she could stop herself.   _Do you like Chinese takeout?_

 

“U-umm…”

At the same time that Roman was skidding to a stop at the entrance of a dingy alley, Patton looked up to see a short kiddo in a blue striped polo and a clunky arm cast with ‘CONNOR’ scrawled across its entirety.

At least, he was pretty sure he did.

The kiddo’s outline was slightly wavy, blurred as if Patton was looking at him through a frosted window. When Patton tried to focus on him, he only managed to go cross-eyed and start the beginnings of a headache.

“Hey, kiddo!”  He tried focusing his eyes through him, finding that to work much better.  “How can I _Bake_ your day?”

“U-umm…  Can I get…”  He stuttered his way through and order of raspberry macaroons and a double chocolate chip muffin as Patton tried not to make it too obvious he could see through his customer’s frame.

“Coming right up!”  Patton chirped, ducking underneath the counter with a bag.  When he came up, however, the customer was gone. “Kiddo? Where’d you go?”

“I-I’m right here.”  A hazy outline in the middle of the air shifted, and Patton realized that the other man hadn’t even moved.  He was entirely transparent, only a slight bending of light around his edges giving away his location. “Sorry, it’s doing it again, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”  Patton’s mouth twisted sympathetically as he held out the bag, watching with mild interest as it seemingly floated in space.

“My Ability acts up when I get anxious,”  A disembodied voice stammered. “It’s actually pretty awful.”  Several crumpled dollar bills materialized and placed themselves on the counter.  “T-thanks.”

“You got it!”  Patton said, smiling in the voice’s general direction.  The door swung open, seemingly by itself, the bell jingled cheerfully, and a white paper bag stamped with Bake My Day’s logo floated down the street.

“Poor kiddo,”  The baker murmured to himself, grabbing a towel from its hook behind the counter and wiping down the already-spotless display case.

His eyes drifted up when the bell rang again, and a grin leapt onto his face.  “Logan!”

“Patton.”  The astronomer nodded cordially.  “I was please to hear of you having another three-am special night.”

“Half-off for all struggling college students, night owls, and insomniacs.”  Patton winked, gesturing to a stool. “Now, which category would you fit into?”  He leaned over the counter as Logan sat down.

“I escaped college long ago, so that wouldn’t be it.”  Logan played along, tapping a long finger against his chin in mock-seriousness.  “I am perfectly capable of maintaining a regular circadian rhythm, so that’s out of the running as well.”  He sighed. “And I’m afraid I’ve always been a morning person as well, so, none of the above, I suppose. I’ll just have to pay full price.”

Patton snorted, ducking down for a lemon poppy-seed muffin.  “You’ll just have to pay by putting up with my puns-” He slid a pastry-bearing plate across the counter.   _“-muffin.”_

“I’d rather throw a twenty at you and run, if it’s all the same.”  Logan bit into the treat, his eyes fluttering closed in bliss.

Patton gasped, mock-scandalized.  “Logan Abbott! I am not that kind of a person.”

Logan's eyes snapped open.  “Patton… what exactly do you mean by that?”

Patton giggled, coming around the counter to sit on the swivel-stool next to the astronomer, sitting so close that their knees gently knocked together.  “The type that would accept a twenty without giving proper change, of course.”

“Oh.”  Logan's shoulders relaxed as he took another bite of muffin.  Patton's innocence was still preserved.

“Also, a stripper.”

Logan choked on his bite of muffin.

Patton began to laugh, and, after a moment, Logan had no choice but to join him.

“So.”  Patton leaned forward, eyes eager and bright.  “How was the gala? Did you two have fun?” He paused, a small crease forming in the center of his freckled forehead.  “Where is Virge anyway?”

Logan grimaced.  “Do you have any Crofters thumbprint cookies?”

Patton’s eyes widened.  “That bad?”

“Suffice to say they will be direly needed.”  Logan launched into a retelling of the night, recounting the splendor of the plaza, The Prince’s speech, their banter.

If Patton’s cheeks flushed, and he shifted slightly in his chair when Logan described his and Roman’s salsa, then that was no one’s business but his own.

If Logan deepened his voice and leaned closer to Patton to elicit such a reaction, then that was also no one’s business but his own.

Logan conveyed his confusion at Virgil’s abrupt dance with Missy and subsequent disappearance, unconsciously tugging at a lock of his curly hair, but it wasn’t until Virgil was whisked away to take a call and Missy proposed to Roman that his perplexion shifted to distress.  “Virgil appeared absolutely dreadful afterwards,” Logan confided, nabbing a cookie from the plate the baker had procured. “He was clutching his hand so tightly his nails had broken through the skin.”

Patton gasped, a hand flying to his mouth.  “Is he okay?”

“I have no idea.”  Logan shook his head mournfully.  “He absquatulated before I could tend to him.”

“I don’t care if he did ab exercises or not!”  Patton cried. “Why didn’t you see if he was okay?”

“I know, I should have.  It is, however, at times the wisest course of action to allow Virgil to… chill when he is in one of his more unpleasant dispositions.”  Logan laid the hand not preoccupied with a Crofters cookie on Patton’s knee and rubbed it soothingly. “Rest assured that he is fine.” He assuaged Patton as, a few blocks down the street, the villain was rewiring his machine, breaking into Logan’s office for employee records, and plotting how to kidnap a man.

Patton heaved a sigh, putting his hand on top of the astronomer's.  “I know.” He laced his fingers through Logan’s; the astronomer traced lazy circles on the back of the baker’s hand with his thumb in a gesture as familiar breathing.  “I just can’t help but worry.”

Logan internally grimaced.  He was not renowned as a comforting presence, but he’d try for Patton.  He would do anything for Patton. “That worry is illogical.” He finally decided to go with what he knew best: statistics.  “Chances are that Virgil is safely at home, in bed, sleeping-”

A singular raised eyebrow from Patton cut him off.

“Chances are that Virgil is safely at home, in bed, scrolling through Tumblr.”  Logan amended. “Chances are very unlikely - at near to zero percent - that he is galavanting around town.  Chances are also very unlikely - at 1 in 3,748,067 - that he is presently being eaten by a shark.”

A startled laugh fell from Patton’s lips.  “Is that right?”

Logan pushed his nose in the air proudly.  “Indubitably.”

A tentative smile broke out on the baker’s face.  “What else could he be doing?”

“Well.”  Logan shifted on his stool, knocking their knees together.  “He could be consuming some of the average of one-thousand five-hundred pounds of food an individual human eats each year.”

Patton hummed.  “Do you think he’s eating some maize, or is that too corny?”

Logan frowned slightly.  “Well, considering that maize was a food traditionally farmed in classic mesoamerica and has since evolved into corn-”  He cut himself off and narrowed his eyes at Patton, who was trying and failing to hold in his giggles. “That was a pun, wasn’t it.”

“You got me!”  Patton burst out into his full belly laugh, and, well, Logan couldn’t quite bring himself to begrudge something that brought the baker so much joy.

Even if it was a crime against the laws of conventional English.

Patton calmed and smiled at the astronomer’s exasperated expression.  He leaned forward, and Logan felt his breath hitch. “What are the chances he’s kissing someone?”

Logan coughed into a closed fist, feeling a hot flush tinge his ears red.  “At any given moment, an estimated fifty-eight million people are kissing.”  

Patton’s hands found his, and he linked their fingers together.

Very swavely and with complete control over his vocal cords, Logan spoke up.  “How would you like to make it fifty-eight million and two?” Except it just came out as a strangled squeak as Patton leaned even closer.

“Hey, Lo.”  The baker’s blue eyes drifted past him.  “Not trying to alarm you, but there is a superhero looking longingly through our window.”

“What?”  Logan spluttered, whirling around on the stool to confirm that, yes, there was one Roman Garcia trudging away from the bakery with hunched shoulders.

“Oh no, he’s leaving!”  Patton leapt from his stool, cardigan fluttering behind him, and rushed to the door.  “Kiddo!” He called out into the warm Florida night, holding open the door invitingly.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Logan made a herculean effort to wipe the scowl off of his face.  So close.

“I wasn’t…”  The hero’s voice tentatively trickled in from outside as Logan joined Patton by the door.  “I wasn’t entirely certain I’d be welcome.”

“Preposterous,”  Logan scoffed. “This is a public establishment presently operating within business hours.  Why on earth would you be denied admittance?”

“Not what he meant, Lo,”  Patton softly corrected.

“Ah.”  Logan blinked, ignoring the flush that crept up the nape of his neck.  “If you were referring to the social aspect of companionship, you have adequately endeared yourself to Patton.”  He cleared his throat as The Prince approached. “As well as proved yourself an… entertaining conversationalist, Roman.”

For some reason, the sound of his name seemed to jolt Roman back into action.  “Thanks.” He slunk in through the door, looking around the bakery with guarded eyes.

Logan had to physically reign in his shock; the hero looked absolutely haggard.

His uniform was rumpled with a tear in the material over his chest, revealing currently indiscernible words tattooed over his heart.  His eyes were haunted, and his hands were ceaselessly tapping against his sides.  His face was long and drawn, as if someone had rendered the celebrity in charcoal, forgetting to sketch in the sparkle in his eye, the wide flash of his grin, the easy, handsome charm of his features.

“Here.”  Patton, with Dad Mode fully equipped, herded the hero over to a stool by the countertop.  “Do you need anything, kiddo?” He cast a concerned glance over the hero. “You look like you might want a cup of tea.”

Roman shook his head determinedly.  “No, I… I don’t mean to intrude. I was just on patrol and wandered by.”

Patton’s mouth twisted slightly as he rounded the counter, trailing his fingers over the slick glass, but his cheerful beam was back in place when he faced the hero again.  “Well-” He pushed the plate of Crofters thumbprint cookies towards his guest, ignoring Logan’s indignant cry. “Have a cookie at least.”

Roman hesitantly took one.  “If you insist.”

Logan threw himself down in the seat next to the hero, eyeing the plate with thinly veiled envy.  “He does.”

Roman caught the side of his glare.  “Will you take some too? I can’t eat all of these.”

A small smirk slid across the astronomer's face.  “I believe I shall.”

Roman took a bite, and his immediately eyes widened to the size of saucers.  “Holy-” He cut himself off, shoveling another cookie into his mouth. “What is this God’s ambrosia?”

Logan, also trying to cram more cookies in his mouth than physically possible, responded.  “Thumbprint cookies…” He stopped and swallowed. “With Crofters Jam.”

“Crofter’s Jam…”  Roman repeated reverently.  “Truly a gift to a cruel and undeserving universe.”

Logan nodded sagely.  “No act of human decency has ever, nor will ever, justify this incredible gift Canada has given us in the form of Crofters Jam.”  Except, with the three or four cookies piled in his mouth, it sounded more like ‘nuhacvhufmad cchavnwah vifisicreha ba bafitanadaasiv ‘ofters Jam.’

Patton vaguely wondered how they managed to make ‘Crofters Jam’ sound like it should be capitalized.

“I’ve died.”  Roman proclaimed grandly.  “I have transcended this mere mortal plane and have been been raptured to a heavenly existence.”  He swooned in Patton’s general direction. “You have mastered the art of producing pure joy in the form of pastries, Duff _Golden_ man.”

His gaze landed on Patton’s nails, lacquered with a pale blue.  “And your nails are absolutely fabulous.”

Patton grinned, shimmying his shoulders.  “I can do yours if you want, kiddo!” He ducked under his counter and procured a small, purple zip-up bag.

Roman spared a moment to wonder how the baker actually managed to fit so much stuff behind that counter.  It was like Mary Poppins’s bag or the TARDIS. The thought flew out of his head, however, as Patton reached for his hand.

“No, no, it’s fine!”  Roman responded hastily, moving his hands out of the baker’s range and tucking them behind his back awkwardly as the discomfort Crofters had managed to draw away from him came slamming back.  “I really shouldn’t.”

Patton tilted his head, bangs gently flopping over his forehead.  “You sure, kiddo? I think you’d look great with these!” He beamed as he dug through his bag, presenting Roman with a sparkling gold and a brilliant red bottle.

Woah, those were pretty. _“It’ll be fine,”_  Desire tempted Roman.   _“Don’t worry about it.”_

“Well…”  Roman hesitantly put his hands back on the countertop.  “If you really don’t mind.”

“Not at all!”  Patton beamed, unscrewing the red bottle and gently adjusting Roman’s hand flat on the countertop.  “We just need to get you some _cute_ -icles.”

Logan took a precious moment away from his Crofters cookies to groan.

Roman laughed warmly at the both the pun and the exasperated eyes the astronomer sent his way.  It felt nice to be the person someone made eye contact with when something ridiculous had happened.  Foreign, strange, and new, but nice.

He sent Logan a one-shouldered ‘what can you do?’ type of shrug, careful not to jostle Patton, who had finished his first and third fingers and was painting his index finger with a single-minded determination.

The astronomer returned his shrug with a half-quirked smile and slid the plate of cookies, now barren except for one, over to the hero.  “Want it?”

Roman’s stomach and taste buds both clamored for the treat, but he denied them.  “Nah, you go ahead.”

Logan picked up the cookie, considering it with hungry eyes for a moment - he vaguely reminded Roman of those ‘get you a man who looks at you like whoever looks at whatever’ memes - before gently creasing it into two halves.  “I’ll concede to share it with you.”

Joy crashed into Roman’s chest like a bullet train.  “Sure,” He agreed, taking the cookie and firmly telling himself to only eat in small bites to savor it.  “That works.”

At that moment, munching on a cookie filled with ambrosia of the gods and having his nails painted a brilliant red and gold, Roman could only think of one thing (person, really) that would make it better.

“Hey,”  Patton piped up, carefully bathing Roman's thumbnail in shimmering gold.  “Why don’t you ever see hippopotamuses hiding in trees?”

Logan frowned thoughtfully.  “Likely due to the fact that they lack the necessary faculties to mount the tree in the first place, not to mention the significant burden their girth would prove to be as-”

“Because they’re so good at it!”  Patton giggled.

Logan's groan warred with Roman's chortle.

“Why did the scarecrow get an award?”  Roman asked the baker, who immediately turned starry-eyed.

“Why?”  He asked eagerly, bouncing slightly on his toes.

“Because he was out-standing in his field!”  Roman grinned.

The baker laughed, and Roman felt as if he would get a cavity from the pure sweetness of the sound.  Patton’s laugh was a comforting, kind thing that left you no choice but to smile along.

“Outstanding in his field?”  Logan muttered to himself, a perplexed crease forming in the middle of his forehead.  “Ah, I see. The verbal play on the academic field and agricultural field leave a humorous ambiguity as to which is being addressed.”

The astronomer cleared his throat, deciding to partake in the merriment.  “There are 10 types of people in the world,” He announced as Patton and Roman turned to him with curious eyes.  “Those who understand binary, and those who do not.”

The other two swapped confused glances.  They were obviously the latter sector of the population.

“...ha?”  Patton said hesitantly.

“What the heck are you talking about, Java Scripted?”  Roman snarked.

“So you comprehend basic coding languages but not the basis of said languages?”  Logan threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know why I even try.”

“C’mon, Lo,”  Patton wheeled.  “I’m sure it was hilarious.”

“For a nerd joke,”  Roman chortled.

Logan’s narrowed eyes and pointing finger were tempered by the smile he kept fighting to keep off of his face.  “You two are secretly in cahoots, aren’t you?”

“The only one here with cooties,”  Patton quipped as he screwed in the cap for the red nail polish, Roman’s hands complete.  “Is you.”

Roman laughed, Patton giggled, and Logan’s eyeroll wasn’t as caustic as it could’ve been.

“What do you think, kiddo?”  Patton gestured to Roman’s nails with a grin.

The hero held them out admiringly, but he found his gaze drifting to the freckle-faced baker standing before him and the snarky astronomer at his side.  “Perfect,” He said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”

The three of them chatted and laughed and snarked into the early morning.  It was so strange to Roman how at-ease he felt. How perfectly he seemed to fit as he exchanged barbs with Logan and puns with Patton.  He and the astronomer challenged each other with obscure history facts - “Nintendo predates Sherlock Holmes.” “Yeah, well, France’s last use of the guillotine was in the same year that the first Star Wars movie came out.” - and he couldn’t help but adore the gooder-than-gold baker’s sparkling personality.

He kept shocking himself with how easily he could laugh here.  He burst out into another fit of snorts, but when he glanced out of the window, where the sky was slowly turning to a gold-streaked soft lilac, his laughter cut off as abruptly as it had began.  “What time is it?” He demanded, suddenly frantic.

Logan glanced at his watch.  “About seven in the morning.”

The hero swore, ran an agitated hand through his hair, and swore again.  “I… I’ve got to go.” He began to pick at the red and sparkling gold nail polish on his hands with a single minded determination.  It slowly flaked away. “How do… how do you get this off?” He cried, vigorously scraping at his hand.

Patton placed a gentle hand on his arm, stilling him with a single touch.  “Is something bothering you, kiddo?”

Roman shook his head determinedly, swallowing down the lump in his throat.  “I’ve got to go,” He repeated firmly before taking a deep breath and echoing himself softly, almost mournfully.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Forgive me, Roman.”  Logan exchanged a glance with Patton.  “But I fail to see what your nail polish has to do with this.”

Roman’s shoulders hunched.  The other two marveled at how easily the giant could shrink.  “It’s not masculine.” Roman said flatly, all traces of his earlier comfort gone.  “The press will have a field day if they see me like this.”

“But, kiddo.”  Patton frowned, creasing his freckled face.  “If you’re just going home - that is where you’re going, right?”

Roman nodded, still staring at the floor like he could read the ancient language of checkerboard if he focused long enough.

“Why does it matter if you’re just going home?”

Roman clenched his hand, and the golden ring weighing he had almost managed to forget about pressed into his skin.  “Because it does. Because I’ve got an image to maintain. Because… Missy won’t like it.”

“Ah,”  Logan’s cool tone didn’t betray the alarm bells ringing in his head.  “Your fiancée.”

Heat prickled at the corners of Roman’s eyes.  “Right.”

“Hey, kiddo,”  Patton began gently.  “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping here, but you don’t exactly seem… thrilled right now.”

_Smile. The world is watching._

Roman never had liked lying, but after sometime, it was simply easier.  He and deceit were intimately acquainted now. “Well, why wouldn’t I be?”  The Prince boomed joyously, shrugging off the baker’s hand to strike a pose.  “I fear I am merely fatigued by the late hour and my heroic exploits. Did I tell you that I stopped a mugger on the way over here?  It’s quite the riveting tale. There I was, staring down the fiend to defend a young maiden when-”

“Roman.”  Patton’s soft voice cut through the hero’s bluster like a hot knife through butter.  “You don’t always have to pretend that everything’s okay.” He smiled sadly. “Trust me, it never turns out well.”

Roman could see every detail of the baker’s face.  Every fine hair, every cell in his light eyelashes, every color in his kind blue eyes.  He could see everything, but it was the look the baker gave him that broke the hero; it was a look that saw Roman and accepted him anyway.

“It’s not,”  Roman blurted out.  “It’s not okay; nothing is okay!”  He cried, waving a hand in the air.  “I didn’t notice until I started spending time with Him-”  He didn’t need to clarify who ‘him’ was; they all knew. “-that the way Missy treats me sometimes is… it’s not okay!  She wants to know where I am every single second of the day. I didn’t bring my phone with me because I’m pretty sure she has a tracker on it.  And she’s the one who handles all of my PR stuff because she declared that she was my handler and everyone just went with it! My image is everything, and she’s the one who determines what everyone sees.  People don’t know my name, did you know that? No one knows who Roman Garcia is! No one knows that I’m Cuban or that I love theatre or than my grandparents were immigrants or that I like poetry or what I had to put up with as a kid or anything about me!  Because Missy controls how I dress and what I eat and what I say and what interviews I do and what reporters I talk to and… everything! She won’t even let me wear makeup!

“But then sometimes, she’s wonderful.  She promises me that she’s changed and that she loves me and that she’d never do anything to hurt me.  And every single time I fall for it. She can’t hurt me; I’m invincible, right? So we watch Disney movies together and go online shopping and dance, but every single time she starts doing it again.  

“And then I met Him and it was completely different!  Because with Missy it’s like every single conversation is a test that I didn’t study for, and I keep failing them.  It’s just easier to not say anything at all. But with him it’s just so… easy. We can talk about absolutely anything and trade insults and nicknames and it’s not awkward or strange, even though it should be!  And he doesn’t belittle me when I ask about something. I asked what he was working on one time, and he explained everything to me. And he didn’t even call me dumb when I didn’t know what a spring was! At first, I thought he was awful, but I was completely wrong about him.  He does so much to help the Unabled, and he’s so smart and so snarky and so clever, and I just… I want to be near him. All the time. I want to talk to him and laugh with him and everything, but I can’t because I’m engaged to Missy. I’m the good guy, and he’s the-” Roman cut himself off, eyeing Logan and Patton warily.  “Did he tell you how we met?”

They both replied in the negative.

Roman nodded slowly.  “It’s not my secret to tell, but… you might want to ask him.”

Silence stretched in the air for a long moment.

“Roman,”  Logan softly broke the quiet.  “It sounds to me as if you are describing a very… negative home environment.”

The blood drained from Roman’s face as he realized he had just spilled his guts to two virtual strangers.  “N-no!” He laughed. “I was just being dramatic. Missy is wonderful. I love her very much. We’ve been together for so long, you know.”

“Kiddo, you don’t have to lie to us.”

Roman paused, frozen, before speaking so quietly that they had to lean forward to hear him.  “It’s just easier to say I love her.”

Logan looked at him for a long moment, but it was Patton who spoke.  “Do you love him?”

Panic jumped inside of Roman’s chest.  “NO!” He cried vehemently before backtracking.  “Well, maybe? I don’t know.” He groaned, running a hand down his face.  “I don’t know if I even know what love feels like.”

The truth of his own words hit him like a punch to the jaw.  How pathetic was he? He couldn’t even say that he knew what love felt like.  A coldness seized his chest, and he was painfully aware of the hitching of his breath, the bile rising in his throat, the overbearing, overwhelming hollowness in his chest.  His hand gripped his thigh under the marble countertop, squeezing until his entire arm shook with the effort.

What kind of a freak was he?

Patton stepped out from behind the counter and gently grabbed the hero’s hand as he settled into the stool next to him.  “It’s really not that difficult, kiddo.” He waited until Roman was looking at him to continue, softly squeezing the hero’s hand in reassurance.  “People always say that love is when you see someone and the whole rest of the world just seems to fall away. It’s when nothing else matters, or when you don’t want anything else to matter but that person.  They say that it’s the rush of butterflies and the spark between you.”

The astronomer took the stool on the other side of Roman, and Patton found his gaze drifting, as it always did, to his shining star.

“But really, it’s not about that at all.  The rest of the world is always going to be there, and Love is when you find someone - or some people - who you want to take on the world with.  Love is when you can see past what others see about someone, and love is when you know who they are. Love is when you stop trying to put them into a box, when you realize just how fantastic and complicated and wonderful they are.”  Patton looked into Logan’s eyes. “Love is wanting nothing more than to want to see their smile.”

Logan smiled, and Patton felt his heart soar.  

“Love is difficult, and messy, and it’s not always easy, but love is when you make that decision to keep on loving, no matter what.  Because even if they mess up, or hide things from you, or do something you don’t agree with, you can forgive them, and they’ll forgive you when you do something silly.”  Patton suddenly realized that there was water rimming his eyes, and he pulled his hand away from Roman’s, laughing. “It’s when they make you feel like everything is going to be okay.”

Logan silently offered Patton his handkerchief, and Patton took it gratefully.

 _Oh,_ Roman thought.   _So that’s what love looks like._

“Love is…”  Logan began then faltered as they both turned their faces towards him.  “It’s when you’d do anything for them.” He murmured softly, looking into Patton’s eyes.  “Anything at all.”

The look the other two were sharing was so tender, so intimate, that Roman felt as if he was intruding on a private moment.  He stared at his hands, resting on the cool marble countertop, for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know if I love him.” He confessed, afraid to look up and see their reactions.  “But I… I don’t think I love Missy.”

His eyes blurred, but through his fogged vision, he saw Logan, holding out a white handkerchief.  He laughed despite himself as he took it. “Just how many of those things do you have, Catcher of the Eye?”

Logan smiled.  “An adequate number.”

Roman wiped his eyes and let the handkerchief fall to the counter.  He watched it slowly flutter down, and heard the almost infinitesimal sound it made as it touched slick, polished marble.  “I don’t want to go home.” He confessed quietly.

Patton clasped a hand on his shoulder.  “There’s a couch in here for a reason, buddy.”

Roman let out a small, watery smile.  “Thanks.”

“Although.”  Patton’s blue eyes were suddenly blazing as his fingers dug into the hero’s shoulder.  “If you dare harm my sweet and sour shadowling, they'll never find your body.”

Roman was The Prince, a six-foot, five-inch literally invincible superhero.  Patton was a five-foot, three-inch, chubby baker.  Neither of these facts kept Roman from being completely terrified.  “Okay,” He squeaked out.

Patton’s grip relaxed just as suddenly as it tightened.  “Okie-dokie then, good talk!” He exclaimed, slipping away to rummage around in the display case and pulling out a pink donut.  “Here, have a treat.”

Roman shot a wide-eyed glance at Logan, who appeared rather bemused but unperturbed.  “Is he always like this?” The hero risked muttering.

“No,”  The astronomer responded.  “Usually he's much more protective.”

“You're not going to poison me, are you?”  Roman joked, picking up the strawberry-glazed treat and sniffing it.

Patton just giggled.  “Like that would actually work.”

It would, actually, but Roman elected to keep that information safely out of the fearsome baker’s hands.

“I have a sneaky suspicion,”  Roman announced around a mouthful of strawberry heaven.  “That you’re fattening me up for something.”

Patton winked.  “More room for snuggles.”

Roman gasped dramatically.  “Your true, villainous schemes come to light!”

“Ah, yes,”  Logan deadpanned.  “Patton was secretly the bad guy this whole time.”  He paused dramatically. “Or was it I, the buyer of the Crofters?”

“Conspiracy!”  Roman cried with a grin.  “I knew you two were too perfect to be real.”

Some time after that, they all found their eyes and limbs growing heavy with sleep.

“I wish I could get paid to sleep.”  Patton yawned, bringing up a hand to cover his mouth.  “It’d really be a…”

Logan groaned preemptively, hitting his head on the counter with a thunk.

“Dream job.”

“Nice one,”  Roman murmured, slumping down on the couch he was sprawled out on.  It barely fit him, but in his present state, he could sleep on anything vaguely horizontal and not made entirely of wasps.

“No it wasn’t.”  Logan groaned into the counter, slurring his words.  “It wasn’t at all.”

Roman fell asleep to the sound of Logan and Patton’s playful bickering with a smile on his face.

 

“Morning, sleepy head!”  A heavenly smell and an angelic voice gently encouraged Roman's return to consciousness.

The hero groaned, rolling over despite the poor couch’s squeaks of protest.  “Five more minutes.”

The heavenly smell drifted closer.  “You sure about that?”

Roman’s eyes snapped open.  “Maple-glazed donut?”

The baker grinned.  “Maple-glazed donut.”

Roman took the treat and moaned around a mouthful of pastry as he sat up.  “You are not human.” He declared. “You are an absolute angel who was cast out because your baking is too sinfully good.”

“I second the motion.”  Roman followed the gravily morning voice to find Logan sitting by the counter, hair rumpled and eyes bleary.  The hero’s gaze drifted back to the baker to find him in a similar state.

“You both stayed the night?”  He asked softly.

Logan scoffed.  “The prospect of simply leaving you struck us as preposterous.”

Roman rose and padded on bare feet to the counter, taking the stool next to the astronomer.  “Thanks.”

Patton cooed.  “Don’t mention it, kiddo.”

It was at that moment, looking at Patton and Logan, that Roman realized that this was the longest in the past fifteen years he hadn’t had to use a fake smile.

And then an explosion roared through the air.

Roman threw himself over Patton and Logan, knocking them to the ground and shielding them with his body.  The overhead lights flickered, and the hanging light fixtures swayed wildly, throwing shadows across the cheerful bakery.  He waited, tense, but nothing further came.

He fluidly pulled himself to his feet and looked down at Patton and Logan, frozen with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.  “Are you two okay?”

Logan recovered first.  “Yes,” He coughed into his fist and sat up, bushing off his shirt as he tried not to think about being pinned to the ground by Roman.  “I’m quite alright.”

Patton, undergoing a similar predicament, squeaked out another confirmation of well-being.

Roman nodded, looking out of the window anxiously.  “What was that?”

“I don’t know.”  Patton stood and offered Logan a hand up.

Roman nodded, tapping his foot against the floor restlessly.

“You’re going to go investigate, aren’t you?”  Logan, now standing, quietly asked.

Roman shrugged.  “Kinda in my job description.”

Patton took two steps forward and threw his arms around Roman’s torso.  “Be safe, okay?” He pleaded softly.

Roman froze for a moment, startled, before carefully wrapping his arms around the baker.  “Don’t worry about it, you little puffball.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling noise that reverberated through Patton’s chest.  “Invincible hero, remember?”

Patton smiled wryly.  “Worrying is kinda in my job description.”  He hesitated for half of a moment before lifting himself on his tiptoes and kissing the hero’s cheek.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Roman, face flaming red, found his bewildered gaze landing on a rather unperturbed astronomer.

Logan arched an unimpressed eyebrow.  “I’m not kissing you.”

Roman scoffed, gently disentangling himself from the baker.  “You should be so lucky, Oliver Twisted.”

“Trust me-”  Patton winked. “-you would be.”

Then, the hero left.  Then, he raced through sand-strewn streets, not knowing that the villain was trailing behind him, skipping across rooftops and sliding down the sides of cracked concrete buildings.  Then, he confronted a different villain, one in a line of threats he had defeated. Then, he found sand, sand everywhere, grating against the inside of his throat, the flesh of his ears, the softness of his eyes.  Then, he fell asleep as his villain gasped in horror and the Sandman grinned wickedly, lounging on a golden throne.

Patton and Logan, of course, knew none of this.

“He’ll be fine, Patton,”  Logan unwittingly lied. “He’s a hero.  This is just a regular Monday for him.”

“I know,”  Patton wittingly lied, uncomfortably grabbing his elbow with his opposite hand and rubbing his arm as his shoulders crept towards his ears.  “I just worry.”

“Logically speaking, Patton, there’s nothing that worrying can do that will in any shape or form affect the outcome of his… encounter.”

“I know,”  The baker repeated.  “I just can’t help it.  I’ve got a feeling like something bad is about to happen.”

The bell above the shop’s door janged merily, and Patton snapped into cheerful-baker mode before it even stopped ringing.

“Hello!”  He chirped.  “Welcome! Now, how can I _bake_ your days, officers?”

Two grim-faced men in police uniforms filed into the bakery.   **Liander** , the nametag on one proclaimed.   **Tawn** , the nametag on the other disagreed.  It struck Logan as odd that they were here, at a bakery, when there had literally just been an explosion downtown.  Had the crisis really been resolved so quickly?

To Logan and Patton’s surprise, the policemen ignored the baker’s question.  “Are you aware of the whereabouts of a Mr. Logan Abbott?” The one called Tawn asked.

“That’s me.”  Logan interjected stiffly, rising from his stool to stand between them and Patton.  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

Liander looked at Tawn and jerked his head in Logan's direction. “Logan Abbott,” He recited as his partner stalked over to the astronomer, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “You are hereby being placed under arrest for several counts of slander, violations of Schenck V. United States, and misdemeanor charges.”

Logan's eyes widened. He gulped, unconsciously taking a few steps back.

“Sir,” Tawn said. “Please place your hands behind your back and come with us peacefully. Failure to do so will result in resisting arrest being added to your charges.”

Logan, heart in his throat, did as they asked.

Cold metal seized around his wrists.  Someone was reciting his Miranda rights, but he couldn't hear them over the roaring in his ears.

Tawn was leading him to the door when Patton found his voice. “Stop!” He cried, careening around the corner.  “Logan didn't do anything wrong!”

But Tawn took him away anyway.

“Sir,” Liander was saying. “Sir, I need you to calm down. Logan Abbott has been found guilty of crimes and must face justice for his actions.”

Patton felt light-headed. He was vaguely aware that his breaths were coming far too rapidly and too shallowly to be healthy, but he didn't care.  “I’M NOT A SIR!” He yelled. His head was swimming and salt water was running down his cheeks and he was hyperventilating and this stupid cop wouldn't let him see Logan.  “He didn't do anything wrong!” Patton cried, trying to get around the officer, but he was blocked at every turn. “Please, just let me see him. This is just one big misunderstanding.  He said he wouldn't. He _promised.”_

“Si- Ma’a- Look, whoever you are, Mr. Abbott is being arrested.”  The officer said sternly. “Your best bet is to wait it out or put up bail.”

And then he was gone.  And Logan was gone. The bakery was looming large and empty, slowly filling up with silence like water.  Patton could feel it splashing under his loafers as he stumbled towards one of the low-slung couches lining the wall.  His khakis plastered themselves to his legs as he sludged through the liquid, knee-high now.

The weight of his soaked clothes dragged him down even further as the liquid lapped at his waist. Each step was a Herculean effort, each foot put in front of the other a battle barely won.

The liquid slipped over his head as he futilely tried to gasp for air.  He collapsed on the couch, tears mingling with the water filling his bakery to the brim.  His limbs took years to move through the water as he clutched his chest, trying to scream, but only managing to release a stream of bubbles that popped uselessly as soon as they left his lips. No matter how loudly he screamed, no sound broke through the water trying to drown him.  There was no sound at all.

Logan was gone.

And Patton was all alone in the oppressive, overbearing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips tea* I'm allergic to ending chapters on a happy note
> 
> (Speaking of unhappiness, I recently won the Sanders Sides Spring Angst Contest - best overall and best fill of prompt!!! - and have posted the one-shot "Patmalian" here on ao3 if you want to read it)
> 
> And why was this chapter so long??? It was just supposed to be setting up for 15, but then Kaimi insisted on having character development, and magical graffiti happened, and Patton wouldn't stop talking, and I looked up and had created a monster.
> 
> I have NO IDEA when the next chapter will be out, hopefully not as long as this one took, but my schedule is getting pretty hectic, so who knows? Either way, be ready for a super-villain battle ;)
> 
> As always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO, COWARDS (seriously, this one was so long, I didn't review-read it as well as I should have)
> 
> Love you all <3


	15. Local Villains Fight Through Power of Sheer Sass Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PALS WE GOTTA LOTTA TRIGGER WARNINGS HERE  
> \- Police Brutality (Skip the paragraph starting with "Liander and Tawn" through the first break)  
> \- Graphic descriptions of pain / injury throughout  
> \- Fantasy Violence (Skip the sections starting with "we need a plan of attack" and "Virgil hurtled to the")  
> \- Virgil is purposefully called a nickname he is uncomfortable with a few times  
> \- A character is trapped in a burning building (skip "it happened so quickly that all" through "they managed to free"  
> If I missed anything, please tell me!

Whereas most children received “The Talk” only once in their lifetimes, Logan had been privy to two of them.  The first was the standard Birds and the Bees speech, delivered dryly by Professor Julia Abbott. Her own asexuality and aromanticism left her impervious to the usual squeamishness of parents explaining human reproduction to their children, and she had breezily fielded all of his questions with the same accuracy and blatency that made her an excellent journalism teacher.

The second, however, was one of the only times Logan could remember his unflappable mother ever being hesitant.

“Logan, honey?”  She had called from down the hall, voice wavering slightly.  “Put down that model of yours and come see me for a second.”

Logan had obediently placed the solar system model he was constructing on his eight-year-old self’s desk and padded towards their living room.

“Yes, ma’am?”  He had asked. His mother was the type of woman who demanded respect, not through her words, but through her very demeanor.

She hadn’t responded.  She had been frozen, staring at their television with one hand pressed over her mouth and the other clenched in the blue blouse over her chest.

“Mom?”  Logan had prompted.

She had jumped slightly, startled.  Her calm mask, however, was back in place as she turned around to face her son.  “There you are.” She had run a hand through his thick, black curls. “We’ll need to get you a haircut soon,”  She had murmured, more to herself than Logan. Her hands had shook.

“Mom, are you…”  Logan had hesitated, dreading a conversation about feelings even in his youth.  “Are you okay?”

She had shook her head, even as she joylessly laughed.  “I’m fine, honey.” She had tensed up, remembering something, and tried to inconspicuously switch off the television.  She hadn’t done it in time to keep Logan from reading the banner that stretched beneath Coral Mah, the news anchor.

**Unarmed Unabled Man Killed In Police Confrontation.**

She had turned away from the darkened screen and settled down on the couch, patting the space beside her invitingly.  “Come here, Logan,” She had said, voice shaking. “I need to tell you what people like us do when we see a policeman.”

Liander and Tawn were not the only ones who had come to collect Logan.  A mob of them, blank-faced officers in stiffly ironed uniforms, stood around a police wagon.  The knot of unease that had been building in Logan’s chest crystallized into fear.

His mother’s voice drifted forward through time to him.   _The first thing you have to do is stay calm. You’re a good boy; you didn’t do anything wrong._

“Schenck versus United States,”  He started, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking.  “Is the Supreme Court Case limiting freedom of speech in the cases of public endangerment, is it not?”

They acted as if they hadn’t even heard him, like he was no more than a buzzing gnat, but one of them shoved him slightly, sending the astronomer stumbling along the sidewalk.

“Get in.”  Rough hands shoved him into the car, and a sharp pain exploded in Logan’s head as his skull banged against the doorframe.

He gasped as he tumbled into the cabin, barely managing to pull his foot in before it was slammed in the door.  The engine growled to life, filling the air with the stench of oil.

_If they try to scare you or provoke you, don’t give in.  They’ll use anything they can against you._

Logan realized with a start that he wasn’t bucked in.  “Excuse me,” He said, fighting down a swell of panic. “But I do believe I am improperly secured.  That, combined with the restraints on my hands, leave me rather… unstabilized.”

The officer in the front seat adjusted the rearview mirror until all Logan could see was a pair of cool hazel eyes.  “I know.”

The officer released the parking brake and roared down the street, slamming Logan back against the seats.  He desperately tried to brace himself, pushing his legs against the back of the seats for anchorage, but the cop took a sharp turn.  Logan flew across the cabin, his shoulder banging into the window with a painful thud.

The car careened down the street, dangerously swerving from side to side.  Logan was thrown around like a child’s rag doll, carelessly hurled through the air, unable to do anything to defend himself.

He hit his head again, then his arm, then his back, then his torso, then his everything until his entire body was a living, breathing bruise.

Brakes screamed in agony as the cruiser came to a jarring halt; Logan’s own momentum carried him forward, his face crashing against the metal grate.  A sickeningly loud crunch reverberated through his skull, and it took him a moment to realize that the viscous liquid streaming from his nostrils was blood.

He was screaming, but even his own words were incomprehensible past the ringing in his ears.

The door to the cabin was yanked open, and Logan sprawled out onto the pavement, rough concrete scraping his skin.

_Don’t make any sudden movements, and do everything they say._

“You okay there, pal?”  The officer with the cool hazel eyes looked down at him.  “You’re looking a bit rough.” When he didn’t respond, the cop nudged him none-too-gently with his steel toed boot.  “Get up.”

Logan shrank away from the kick, curling up on his side.  “I can’t,” He croaked.

The others were there, caging him.  “What do you mean?” One jeered.

His already problematic back was wrenched in agony.  He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. “I can’t,” He repeated, more plea than response.

“Are you resisting a lawful command by an officer?”  Someone snarled.

“Careful there, pal,”  The hazel-eyed one tutted.  “That’s another charge to hold against you.”

“Guys!”  Someone snapped.  “Ease up on him.”

Logan’s hopes dared to rise.  He lifted his head ever-so slightly to make eye contact with the officer defending him.

_Just be smart, baby.  Be safe._

The cop crouched down, gazing at Logan steadily.  “He can’t help it.” He didn’t address Logan, acting as if the astronomer couldn’t even hear them.  He rose with a cocky smirk, lacing his thumbs through his belt loops. “He’s just a Powerless.”

Red-hot tears tore at the corners of Logan’s eyes.  All his life, people had used that word against him.  They used his Unabled status like a weapon for their own gain, and he had fought back, being better, smarter, stronger.  He had always been Unabled.

But he had never felt so Powerless.

Another kick came.

Another.

Another.

His lip split open.  His vision filled with stars.  Blood ran down his forehead and mingled with the tears streaming from his eyes.

Then, finally, they relented.

“Get up,”  The command came again.

Logan tried several times, but he only succeeded in flailing around uselessly.

_“But don’t you ever dare let them break you.  You’re worth more than they’ll ever know, and you’re smarter than they’ll ever be.  You’re a fighter, Logan.”_

Logan stilled, calculating.

“MOVE!”  One of them roared at him.

He did.  He rolled onto his stomach, breathing deeply to clear the black that threatened to overtake his vision.  The gray pavement was stained with red as he dragged his bloodied knees under him. His muscles resisted the slightest movement; every infinitesimal motion was a battle won.

His head was screaming and his ears were ringing and he felt as if someone had put a sledgehammer directly through his torso and everything hurt and he suddenly couldn’t stop wondering what they had done to Patton.

Patton.

Was he okay?

The baker’s name pushed its way through his lips as Logan gathered strength.  He was going to be okay. He had to be.

Because if he made it out of this alive, he was going to tell Patton everything.

Then, he was going to kiss him senseless.

_“Be strong.”_

He struggled to his knees - acquiring more bruises to add to his already-obtained myriad.  He spat on the ground at the officers’ feet, thick saliva mixed with red. “There,” He rasped.  “I’m up.”

The officers, oblivious to the monumental struggle Logan had just been through, looked unimpressed.

“Took you long enough,”  The hazel-eyed one stated cooly.  He nodded to two of his colleagues and they grabbed Logan by the biceps, lifting him to his feet.  Logan got the feeling that they would’ve tried to dangle him in the air if he wasn’t so tall.

They dragged him through the gray double doors of the station.  Logan tried to keep up, but his legs gave out underneath him and his head was too heavy for his neck.  He was half-carried, half-pushed through the gray double doors of the station.

“Booking him?”  A clipped, polished voice accompanied the sound of long fingernails tapping against a keyboard.

“Yup,”  A member of Logan’s sadistic entourage confirmed.

“Charges?”

“Violations of the first, disruption of the peace, illegal distribution of propaganda…”

Logan tried to listen in on his charges, but the officer’s words seemed to blur together until they were one long, insensible string of chatter.

Besides, it wasn't like he didn't know why he was here.

The clattering of the keyboard sounded so far away.  A fog was filling Logan’s head, clouding over his eyes, bending his neck until he was certain it would snap, numbing the pain that permeated every cell of his body until it was nothing but a dull ache.

“Name?”

“Logan Abbott.”

“Okay… and what-”  The clicking of buttons abruptly cut off.  A sharp gasp cut through the air. “What on Earth happened to him?”

The hands gripping Logan’s arms tightened impercibly.  “He was in a fight.”

Logan raised his impossibly heavy head to see the secretary, a relatively young woman with dark brown hair piled into buns on the sides of her head, staring at his bloodied face with wide eyes.  “I’ll…” She cleared her throat, ripping her eyes away from the astronomer with force. “I’ll send medical in to look at him in a minute.”

One of the officers chuckled.  “Gotta finish booking him first, Brittany.”

“R-right.”  Brittany cleared her throat and resumed typing.  “Abilities?”

“Unabled.”

The tapping hesitated for a millisecond before resuming its pace.  “I see.” And she did.

They took him down a nondescript gray hallway into a nondescript gray cell with peeling paint and hard stone floors.  He was shoved in and sprawled to his hands and knees for the second time in less than five minutes.

The barred cell door slammed behind him with finality.

Logan managed to drag himself over to the wall, propping himself up just in time to see his entourage leaving.

“Don’t I get a phone call?”  He called after them, more for a love of Law & Order and mild hysteria than any expectation of a response.

To his shock, one of them stopped.  “No need.” He turned his head, affording Logan a side view of the vicious smile that split his face.  “You’ve already got yourself a visitor.”

 

“Well?”  The Sandman lounged in his golden throne, one leg slung carelessly over the side.  “What’s the hold up, girlfriend?”

Virgil’s voice took its time finding its way past his lips.  “What did you do to them?”

Virgil got the vague impression that The Sandman would be rolling his eyes if he had them.   “They’re just sleeping, babe.” The other villain pursed his lips. “And that was just so l-a-m-e of you!  The sickest babe you’ve ever seen tells you he’s a fan and the first thing you do is ask what he did to the rando citizens?  Ugh.” The Sandman sighed. “I guess it’s true when they tell you that you should never meet your heroes.”

Virgil steeled himself, clenching his hand into a fist and letting the pain of his biting fingernails sharpen his mind.  “I’m a villain for a reason.”

Remy threw back his head and laughed, obnoxiously naisily and gleeful.  “Then get down here and prove it.” He snapped his fingers and, with a hiss of sand rolling over sand, a golden staircase formed at the edge of the rooftop.

It looked at Virgil innocently, but the villain hesitated, remembering the way sand had encased The Prince moments before he had fallen.  He backed away from the stairs and swung a leg over his bike, roaring off of the edge and landing in the street, safely hovering above the waves of yellow.

“Oh, you are rude!”  Remy cried, sounding oddly pleased by this revelation.  The staircase dissolved with a soft swish, and a cloud of gritty sand rose from the ground and settled over Virgil.  “I can’t see your gorgeous face when you’re hovering like that, gurl.”

Despite his resolution not to show any weakness, Virgil found himself flinching at the nickname.  “Don’t call me that.” He was suddenly and painfully aware of the tightness of his binder against his ribs.

The sand swirled around his body, touching off against his chest before going back into a buzzing swarm that scraped against his skin.  Remy tilted his head. “Oh-kayyy, my bad.”

Heat rushed to Virgil’s cheeks.  “Did you just… feel me up?”

Remy tilted down his sunglasses and winked one of his macabre monstrosities at the villain.  “Hun, you’d know if I felt you up.”

“Yeah, because it’d be followed by me putting a bomb in that little throne of yours,”  Virgil snarled.

The Sandman just grinned.  “You haven’t killed anyone yet, babe.”

“I’m willing to make an exception.”

“I had a feeling you’d want me to be your first.”

”Maybe not, I wouldn’t want to be disappointed.”

The Sandman waved a hand, suddenly shifting so he was sitting up in his throne, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  “I know my conversation is totes exciting, but we’re getting off topic, hot stuff.”

Right.  Destruction of downtown and a whole bunch of comatose people.  That was a thing.

“You said you were my biggest fan.”  Virgil stated, gripping the clutch of his bike tighter for reassurance.  “What did you mean by that?”

Remy scoffed.  “What it says on the tin, duh.  I’m totes digging the whole…” He twirled his wrist.  “Rebel against society thingy. Very punk rock.” He pursed his lips as the sand felt out the villain’s coat, swirling into Virgil’s pockets.  “Not so sure about the whole… what is that, emo vibe?” He scoffed. “You’re gonna have to step your fashion game if we’re going to work together.”

Virgil suddenly decided that he had severe auditory hallucinations.  Or that he had just been in a coma this whole time. The brick that had smashed through Bake My Day’s window all those months ago must’ve hit him in the head.  Because, seriously, a guy with _sand_ for _eyes_ had just proclaimed that he was Virgil’s fan and apparently decided that they were going to be partnering up to stroke fluffy white cats and say things like “Ah, Mr. Bond. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Hold up,”  Virgil choked out.  “What?”

“Oh!”  The Sandman smacked himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand.  “I so totally forgot what I was going to do. I had this whole presentation planned out.”  

He snapped his fingers and Virgil found a wave of sand looming above him, snatching him from his bike.  The villain immediately clamped his mouth shut, scrunching his eyes closed, and clamping his hands over his ears.  If the sand had put everyone else to sleep the way he had seen, then all he had to do was not let it in.

He was so intent on closing himself off from the outside world he didn’t even notice that Remy wasn’t trying to put him to sleep.  He cautiously cracked open one eye, then the other when no gritty onslaught came. His arms slowly relaxed at his sides, coming to rest on the arms of a golden throne, matching the one The Sandman still lounged on.

“Boi,”  Remy drawled.  “I am off-end-ed!  You have so little faith in me?  Rude to the max! How do you expect me to work with you when you keep putting all of this stress on me?  Nuh-uh, no siree.”

The villains were sat facing each other; an unnaturally flat, still plane stretched between them, perhaps only six feet or so across.  Virgil’s hover-bike with its satchels full of weapons was only a few feet away. Slumbering civilians were strewn around the street like confetti the day after a parade.  

The Sandman’s cheshire grin was back in place as his head tilted carelessly towards the sky, basking in the sunshine.  One hand lolled lazily at his side while the other was casually thrown across his chest. He wasn’t looking at Virgil, but he didn’t need to.  A swirling cloud of sand still hovered around the villain, grains gently touching off against Virgil’s skin before rejoining their cohorts.

Something about the way the other villain’s hand was poised, however, screamed of an unspoken threat.  The slumbering breaths of the civilians and The Prince communicated the truth more effectively than any words could: _I can get rid of you whenever I want to._

Oh, The Prince.  He had been given the place of honor.  He was off by himself, covered by an intricately interwoven net of sand.  It would’ve been easier if his eyes thrashed back and forward under his eyelids, a thin coat of sweat coated his brow, and his hands were clenched into fists so tightly that his arms shook.  It would’ve been easier to look at him if he looked alive.

But he was so still.  His chest moved with only the shallowest of breaths, and his face was wain and slack.  The constant grating of so much sand must’ve been unimaginably painful to his super senses, but he couldn’t even revive himself to try to fight back.

Every time Virgil thought that infuriating man couldn’t wrap the thorns that had embedded themselves in his organs any tighter, every time he thought that he was bled out, that there was nothing left of himself The Prince couldn’t touch, the thorns would squeeze even harder.  Soon, Virgil wouldn’t be able to breathe without cutting himself open.

“So…”  The Savior said eventually, pushing his shoulders back and stretching his legs out with as much nonchalance as he could muster.  “Working together?”

The Sandman grinned.  “You know it, fam.”

Bizarrely, Virgil got side tracked by a memory of Patton telling him to never leave out the “I-L-Y” of the baker’s favorite word.

“Here’s the deal, you’re, like, super sick of society, ya?  And I am totes down to start wrecking stuff.” Remy blabbered on.  “Regular life is just so freaking lame, you feel? And I am bored like… all of the time.  I mean, what’s the point of these sick powers if I don’t use them?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Virgil, who made a pointed effort not to let his lip curl into a snarl.

The all-of-this-is-a-coma-dream theory was becoming more and more appealing by the second.

“And then!”  The Sandman proclaimed, leveling a manicured finger at Virgil.  “You showed up. The Savior.” He grinned slowly and widely, as if he was trying to show off how many teeth could fit in his mouth.  “So I figured that, if you could become such a hotshot villain, what was stopping me?” He waited. No response came. “I, like, made a really dramatic entrance and everything.”  He waved a hand around, indicating the sandy wasteland around them. “I mean, look at this place!”

“It’s impressive,”  The Savior finally admitted.  “But I still don’t see why I should want to work with you.  I’m helping people. All you’ve done is put them to sleep.”

Remy pouted.  “I can do more than that.”  He threw a dramatic arm out, and a giant tidal wave of sand arose at his side.  The movement seemed effortless, but The Savior noticed that the elaborate detailing on the crest of the other villain’s throne was wavering.

He bit back a smile.

“I can make anything I want, hun!”  The Sandman cried, laughing as the wave formed into a massive phoenix, cawing and swooping between skyscrapers.  Sparks of fake fire trailed from its wings, raining down into the street. He snapped his fingers and the phoenix shifted into a prancing unicorn, snorting and tossing its mane.  

Despite himself, Virgil laughed.

Remy’s head tilted towards his fellow villain.  “Oh, you like that, babe?” The edge of his grin sharpened.  “Well, how ‘bout dis?”

He clapped his hands together, and the unicorn shifted and morphed into a giant snake.  It hissed, flicking its tongue out to taste the air. Its head bobbed elegantly as its yellow eyes blinked.  Remy moved his hands like he was a conductor, carefully orchestrated the snake’s mesmerizing twists and twirls through the air.  It moved as fluidly and gracefully as a ribbon, twining between buildings.

“Isn’t it pretty?”  Remy raised his eyebrows.  “But pretty isn’t all it can do.”  He twisted his wrist sharply, and the snake started smashing its body through glass panelling on the sides of buildings.  It barrelled straight through one building after another, shredding steel and sheet rock and support beams alike.

The glass rained down, slicing through the clothes and skin on a sleeping mob of civilians.

“Stop!”  Virgil cried out.  “You’re hurting them!”

Remy’s hands stilled, and the sand around the civilians densened as he felt their cuts and scrapes.  “Oh dang,” He said mildly. “Guess I am. Oh well, whateves.”

Virgil stared at the other villain, wide-eyed.  “What is wrong with you?”

The Sandman grinned and took off his glasses, clipping them on his shirt and blinking the orbs of sand set in his face.  “Optic damage?” He suggested.

“You’re not exactly setting out an impressive resume here,”  Virgil snapped. “I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“C’mon, gurl,”  Remy whined. “Just go for it!  We’d be unstoppable together! We could burn the world down and build it back up how-ever we want!”  He snapped his fingers and the snake split into two, melding into two villains sitting side-by-side on golden thrones, just like the ones they were in.  They waved at the tiny civilians forming below as the edge of Remy’s chair crumpled even further.

“I don’t want a throne,”  Virgil hissed, rising from his seat,  “and I don’t want to rule the world. All I ever wanted to do was fix it.”

“And you’re doing _such_ a good job there, hun!”  Remy sniped, rising in turn.  “Do you seriously think the whole social justice warrior gimmick you’ve got going is fooling anybody?  I know what you really want, babe.” He spread his arms and sand rose around him, fanning out dramatically.  “Power. It’s all anyone ever wants.”

He stretched a hand out towards The Savior and purred.  “Think about it. You’d never be powerless again.”

“I’m not ashamed of who I am,”  Virgil snapped. “And you’re never going to be the most powerful person in the world.”  He jabbed a finger at the sleeping Prince. “He is.”

A soft snore emerged from The Prince’s lips, and Remy cracked up.  “That tool?” He doubled over, howling with laughter. “He’s such an idiot!  I got him in, what, twenty seconds?” He wiped a non-existent tear from under his horrific sand orbs.  “I know that he’s your rival or whatever, but honestly, gurl.”

“I told you to stop calling me that,”  Virgil snapped, eyeing the distance from his current position to his bike.  “And he’s more of a challenge than you’ll be.”

The Sandman stilled mid-dramatic motion.  “Oh, honey,” He cooed, dreadfully soft. “It almost sounds like you’re threatening me.  We both know you’re more brains than brawn.” He clenched his fist and a thin cord of sand twined around Virgil’s neck, pulsing meaningfully against his windpipe.

Virgil laughed.  “Careful,” He rasped past the restriction, ignoring the way it tightened.  “Last time a guy held me up by my neck, we ended up psychologically damaging each other while baking cookies.”

“Ugh,”  Remy snorted and snapped his fingers; the cord disassociated, and Virgil collapsed to the ground, gasping.  “You’re just so much drama.”

Virgil stood, rubbing at the strip of skin Remy had almost crushed.  “Says the guy who make a giant sand unicorn and captured The Prince in the hopes that his celebrity crush would show up.”

Remy scoffed.  “Please, boi. You barely made it into my Hashtag Man Crush Monday post.”

Virgil grinned.  “What happened to being my biggest fan?”  He goaded, wracking his brain for the contents of his jacket.

The Sandman pursed his lips.  “I’m starting to rethink that.”  He held out a hand towards The Savior.  “Last chance, babe.” The sand around his eyes started tricking more forcefully, golden tears streaming past a grin that split the other villain’s face in half.  “Forget the hero. Forget the pointless crusade. Forget the rule book. You’re trying to change the system from the bottom, but the only way you can change everything is to burn it down and start again.”  

The sand cloud hovering around Virgil started nudging at his back, trying to push him towards the other villain.

“Let’s _really_ make a difference.”  Remy sang out.

Virgil set his jaw and his feet.  “No.” He said flatly. “Honestly, I’d rather stop wearing eyeshadow and never listen to My Chemical Romance again.”  He snorted, casually slipping a hand into one pocket than another, praying that the other villain’s sand sensors weren’t good enough to tell what he was doing.

“What is your damage?”  Remy cried. “He’s a frigging hero, babe.  We’re the supervillains, remember?”

“No,”  Virgil snapped.  “You’re a supervillain.  I’m a villain. No superpowers needed.  I don’t need them to take on Princey, and I don’t need them to beat you.”  He couldn’t keep stalling for time. He needed to find it.

The Sandman scowled.  “‘Princey’, huh, gurl?”  He curled his lip derisively.  “I’d heard rumors about the two of you, but I didn’t want to believe any of them.”

“Oh,”  Virgil hedged, panic mounting as he rummaged through his pockets quicker and quicker.  “Believe them, _sister._  The Prince and I are in a very special relationship where we psychologically torture each other and will eventually either die or destroy each other in a blaze of glory,”  He spat bitterly, not realizing he was trembling until his cloud grated against his skin even more fiercely.

He forced himself to still.

“You are, like, ten types of thirsty right now and it is _not_ a good look.”  The Sandman pursed his lips.  “Isn’t he engaged, hun?”

“I know.”  The villain bared his teeth in a smile more snarl than grin.  “He is, but I’m selfish. I’m obscene.” He stalked forward until he was toe-to-toe with Remy.  “And that’s _my_ hero you just attacked.”

Remy sighed.  “At least you have your priorities gay.”

“You mean straight?”

“Honey.”  Remy shook his head.  “There is no heterosexual explanation for this.”

Virgil’s fingers finally found what they were looking for.  “Maybe this’ll help you find another one.” He smashed a vial of acid against the side of Remy’s head and ran.

The Sandman howled in pain, clutching at his head.  Virgil didn’t dare look back, but he heard a crackling hiss as the acid ate through the other villain’s skin.  His elaborate sand creations trembled and collapsed as agony overroad Remy’s control.

Virgil raced over to The Prince’s side, grabbing ahold of the hero’s arms and starting to pull.  He had to wake him up.

He made it all of two inches.

Honestly, what was this guy made of?

Panting, he let go of the hero, watching with something akin to hysteria as the hero’s arm dropped to the ground like an anvil.

“Seriously?”  He hissed sardonically.  His frantic gaze landed on his bike, and, despite everything, his idea brought a small smirk to his lips.

“Oh,”  He told the sleeping hero.  “You’re going to absolutely hate this.”

The other villain was starting to recover; it took way longer than Virgil was comfortable with to find the rope to tie around the hero’s wrists and attach to the back of his bike.  He gunned it, roaring down the street and dragging the unconscious form of the world’s most powerful man behind him.

He drove, frantically searching for a sandless place outside of Remy’s grasp, but everywhere he looked was coated in yellow.  He desperately pushed down the panic swelling up in his chest as he heard Remy, howling not in pain but in rage, coming down the street behind them.

He still couldn’t sense them.

For now.

“Hang on, Princey,”  Virgil called, then opened the throttle, flying straight up the side of a brownstone and dragging The Prince against the brick behind him.  He spared a moment to be thankful that the hero was both unconscious and invincible.

He slid to a halt on the gravel-covered rooftop, dismounting and searching with trembling hands through the bike’s satchels.  He had refills for the acid bombs in a hidden tank where the bike could spit it out as needed. He found the wrench he needed and started dismantling the body, ignoring the way the engine’s heat scalded his hands.  Agonizing minutes later, he pulled out the tank.

He swiftly made his way over to the unconscious hero, carefully handling the acid as he knelt down by the unconscious man’s side.

Virgil pressed the opening to the hero’s lips, then hesitated.  He experimentally spilled a drop on the back of the unconscious man's hand, where it beaded off and rolled to the ground.  It sizzled through the sand that coated everything and burned through the gravel.

“Here goes nothing,” Virgil muttered, and poured a vial full of hydrochloric acid down Roman's throat, trying not to think that he might have just killed the hero.

He waited, but nothing happened.  

“Work,”  Virgil hissed like it would make a difference, pressing one ear to the hero’s chest to hear a faint yet steady heartbeat and keeping one wary eye on the street below.  Sand swirled ominously, heralding the other villain’s imminent arrival. “Work, come on, _work_!”

But nothing happened.

Virgil swore, poked his head around the corner, and cursed again when he saw the monsoon of sand moving ever closer. He didn't have time for this.  He needed to just leave the hero and get the hell out of dodge. He was a villain. What did he care what another villain did to The Prince’s city?

But that was just the thing.

The Prince was his hero.

And this was Roman's city.

The familiar weight of anxiety settled around his shoulders like a heavy woolen cloak, but for the first time in days, the rose thorns that had wound themselves around his organs and squeezed until he bled loosened.

“C’mon, Princey, you’re gonna be okay,”  Virgil muttered, more prayer than prophecy.  “Please just… just wake up.”

But the hero still slumbered on.

“Seriously?  I know you need your beauty sleep, but this is getting ridiculous.”  Virgil wracked his brain, trying to remember the brief stint he had made in a high school CPR class.  What did you do when someone was choking?

He raised his fists together above his head and smashed them down on the hero’s chest.  It felt like he just punched a brick wall. He hissed in pain and shook his hands out, watching the hero intently.

Nothing happened.

For one heart-stopping moment, Virgil thought that the acid had done him in.

And then sand started hissing out of the hero, pouring from his nose, his throat, his ears.  Virgil quickly heaved the hero onto his side, rubbing circles into his back as the seemingly endless sand poured forth.

“It’s okay, Princey,”  He murmured, more to himself than the other man.  “You’re okay.”

Roman abruptly sat up, knocking Virgil’s hand back as he gasped around the few grains of sand that still clung to his throat.  His eyes darted frantically around until they found and settled on the villain. Almost instantly, something wild in his eyes calmed.

When he spoke, his voice was rough and gravily, as if he had gargled with 100-proof whisky and broken glass.  “You… rescued me.” Unconsciously, he reached out towards his villain, remembering too late the broken, crackling thing hanging in the air between them.

He stilled his hand.  They both stared at it, realizing at the same time that it was adorned with the hero’s engagement band.

Virgil looked at the shining gold for a long moment before speaking.  “Save the mushy moments for later, Princey.” The villain stood and brushed yellow clouds of sand off of his black coat, internally grimacing at how much he was going to find in his pockets later.  “There’s a villain who isn’t me wrecking downtown. We’ve got a job to do.”

The Prince pulled himself to his feet, raising a haughty eyebrow and flexing his rebellious hand at his side.  “What’s this ‘we’, Doctor Doom-and-gloom? Last I checked, you were planning on wrecking my happy ending.”

The villain didn’t bother looking abashed.  “Keep those super-ears pricked; you might find me accidentally saying something that isn’t snarky sometime.”

The hero snorted.  “Doubtful.” He cast a sideways glance at his companion.  “For real though, we’re taking this guy on together?”

The villain smirked.  “Try to keep up.”

A hesitant smile crept across Roman’s face without his consent.  “And we’re… cool?”

The villain rolled his eyes.  “I meant what I said, your majesty.  No talking until this is done, capisce?”  He gives the hero a once-over. “Can you fight?”

Roman felt out his limbs - intact - his senses - marvelous as ever - and his powers - ready to start hurling things.  “I can.”

Something dangerously close to a smile crossed the villain’s face.  “Then what are we waiting for?” He swung a leg over his hoverbike and pulled his half-mask over his nose, gray eyes flashing lethally from inside of his hood.  “Let’s fight.”

 

When her alarm blared her into an unpleasant consciousness Monday morning, Katrina Santos groped around on the floor, grabbed a balled-up pair of socks, and blindly hurled them with all of her might at the offending object.  It crashed to the floor with a gratifying clamor, and she smirked sleepily. She dozed for a few moments longer until those pesky thoughts of _responsibility_ and _being an adult_ burrowed into her head.

She groaned and pulled herself into a sitting position.   _Fine,_ she decided as she always did.  She guessed she could go to work today.

She stretched her muscular arms over her head, sighing, then rolled her shoulders to edge out some of their soreness.  It wasn’t often that she overdid it with her rather… extreme exercise routines, but she had had some issues to work through lately.  Plus, she never got over the thrill of parkouring around New Psyche by the light of the moon.

She glanced at her clock, toppled over on the laundry-strewn floor and blinking in silent alarm.  If she got up now, she’d have time for a quick detour before she had to be in the lab.

Katrina rummaged around on her floor, finding her sleeve and fitting it onto the end of her leg.  She knew the motions by heart now -  liner, sock, slide her leg into the socket, put some lotion on, roll up the sleeve to create a seal, and voilà, she had a full leg.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom, attacking the rats’ nest that branded itself as her hair with a brush and forcing it into a thick braid that swung down past her hips.  She scowled at her sharp features in the mirror with no intent of doing so. Her face merely seemed to rest in a perpetual look of scorn or slyness. People often got the impression that she was either haughty or downright cruel.

She washed her face, wet her makeup sponge, and set to work hiding the dozens little scars, bruises, and other markers (old and new alike) that littered her face.  She grabbed a soft, long-sleeved green shirt and pulled it and her lab coat on, clipping her name badge to the pocket. The seasons were creeping into warmth - well, more into warmth.  This was Florida, after all - so she probably would’ve been more comfortable in short sleeves, but she was a southern gal through and through. It’d take more than a little heat to keep her from concealing the haphazard rows of stitches and purpling flesh running up and down her brown, toned arms.

She pulled on her boots, grabbed her bag, downed a granola bar and a days-old cup of black coffee, and set off.

Katrina had not been named for a disaster.  It was merely a cruel twist of fate and an unfortunate childhood nickname that linked her to a hurricane.  Well, that and the fact that bad luck seemed to trail her like a particularly persistent black cat.

“Hola, Mama.”  Katrina said softly, closing the door to the plush room in the nursing home.  “Magandang umaga po, Tay.”  She padded across the thick carpet to where her parents were slumped over in their armchairs.  “How we doin’ today?”

Her parents didn’t respond, only slowly blinking at the TV before them and melting into the warmth of the room, their edges slowly melding into the garish paisley pattern of their armchairs.  The morning nurse must’ve already come by. Her parent’s pills turned them into cats - sleeping, breathing things that sat near heat and occasionally made a soft sound.

Her mother turned her head slightly, and for one heart-stopping moment, Katrina was certain her name would fall from the old woman’s lips.  But no recognition flashed through her dark brown eyes. Katrina could’ve just been another nurse or janitor, not her daughter. The old woman turned her head back towards the TV.

Katrina chuckled, the sound too low and too kind for this fragile space.  “Good to know.”

A familiar itching took over her - she was shocked she had managed to last this long - but she managed to reach for the pack of nicotine gum, not the pack of cigarettes.

She sat down on her pillow between the two armchairs, chomping fiercely on the gum, and turned her attention to the television.  It was easier to look at than the withering husks of her parents. “I’m making some real good progress on the medicine for y’all.”  She told the ears that didn’t listen. “‘Course, I keep gettin’ in trouble at work, but screw them anyway, right?”

Silence, broken only by soft breathing and the flickering lights of the television.

Katrina sighed.  “Right.” She reached up and gently took one of each of her parent’s hands, marveling at how thin and papery their skin was.  They seemed to get more fragile every time she came to visit.

She told them about her last few days, ignoring the stillness of the air and filling it with her soft drawl.  She knew it was stupid to rant to these two people who didn’t even know who she was, who couldn’t pick their own daughter out of a lineup, but, despite everything, she couldn’t suffocate the small ember of hope that smoldered in her chest.  

Besides, it wasn’t like she had anyone else who’d listen.

She looked at the clocked and hissed out a curse.  She was going to be late.

Screw it.  Hurling down the street, she spat out her nicotine gum onto the pavement and lit a cigarette.

Maybe there was a good reason for her name: Katrina was a disaster.

She drawled out a good morning to her colleagues as she prowled through the doors of the research lab, receiving only a few grunts in return.  She stalked through the staff room and the groups of gossiping coworkers she was never invited to join, the biohazard disposals, the volatile gases, the ventilated hoods of experimental drugs, only stopping when a rather frazzled gal with a pencil stuck in her messy bun grabbed her arm.

“Katrina,”  Rose Porter, her boss, huffed.  “There’s some reporter asking questions in the lobby.”

Katrina arched an eyebrow.  “And?”

“And we need you to handle her.”  Rose retorted. “Show her around, answer a few questions, whatever.”  She scrutinized Katrina. “It’s not like you were working on anything you should’ve been, is it?”

Well, if you defined ‘should’ve been’ as something to help her parents and possibly others suffering from Alzheimer's, then yes.  

“Fine,”  Katrina gritted out, clutching her clipboard closer to her chest.

“That’s the spirit.”  Rose clapped her shoulder.  Katrina resisted the urge to physically shove it off and hurl something at the other woman.  “Hit her with some of that southern charm of yours, that’ll scare her off.”

Katrina walked away, hand curling into a fist.

She was a catastrophe.

She swung open the door, making a conscientious effort to have less of a scowl on her face than usual.  The well-worn speech fell from her lips in less of a statement and more of a string of vowels and consonants, so often used that they had been stripped of all real meaning.  “Good-morning-and-welcome-to-Medulla-labs-my-name-is-Katrina-and-I-understand-you-have-a-few-questions-”

Then, she saw who was waiting for her in the lab and tripped over her own feet, dropping the files in her arms and scattering papers all over the floor.

“Are you okay?”  A soft, pleasant voice asked.  A pair of black flats padded closer, and a beautiful woman knelt down next to her on the floor, sweeping up papers.  “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

“N-no, I…”  Katrina gulped, trying to still her racing pulse as she kept her face down.  “I just tripped.”

“Here.”  The woman held out a stack of files for her.

Katrina took them and looked up, grinning when Kaimi gasped.  “I appreciate that, little darlin’.”

She was, after all, a Calamity.

 

“You must be Mr. Abbott.”  The man standing on the other side of the barrs was not one Logan had ever seen before.  He was not tall, and he was not short. He was neither wide nor was he thin. He had hair and eyes.

Logan knew all of this, and he knew exactly what the man looked like.  Yet, every time he blinked, he forgot. The instant he looked away, every defining feature the man possessed was wiped from his memory.  Logan stared at him, determined to commit every inch of his face to memory, but then he blinked and he had to start over.

He had red hair.

Blink.

He had black hair.

Blink.

His eyes were green.  

Blink.

His eyes were brown.

Blink.

He was fair-skinned.

Blink.

He was dark-skinned.

The man smiled.  “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Logan vaguely considered rising, but the excruciating screeches of agony every cell in his body wailed out eliminated that possibility.  “I don’t believe I’ve had the same pleasure.”

The man chuckled.  “No,” He conceded.  “You wouldn’t have.” His voice was unusually soft, vowels rounded but consonants precise.  He told Logan his name, but the tighter the astronomer tried to hold onto it, the quicker it slipped from between his fingers.

Logan stared at him more intently, trying to ignore the headache pounding at the space between his eyes.

“Oh, no,”  The man chided him gently.  “Please, don’t distress yourself any further.”  He smiled self-deprecatingly. “My Ability tends to have a negative impact on those who try to resist it.”

The man looked around, as if to find a chair, but all that was nearby was peeling paint and a damp chill.  He let out an exasperated little huff of air through his nose and turned back to Logan. “The state of public facilities today are just dreadful, aren't they?”

Logan simply stared at this odd man, his head too busy having invisible ice picks driven into it to formulate a proper response.

“I've always had the best interests of the public at heart,”  The man continued, undeterred. “It's why I decided to work for Governor Wyrick in the first place.”  He chuckled softly. “That was a rather remarkable piece you ran on him a few weeks ago. I had thought we'd covered up the embezzlement well enough, but, alas.”

“Oh,”  Logan breathed, his tongue thick in his mouth.  “Is that what this is all about? I run a piece on some corrupt politician, and now he's out for my blood?”   _Literally_ , he mused as a drop of red welled up on his split lip.

“Not at all, Mr. Abbott!”  The man rushed to assure him.  “That paper of yours and your colleague’s is the problem here.”

A jolt of adrenaline spiked in Logan's blood.  “What colleague?” He asked as nonchalantly as he could.  “I work alone.” If Kaimi wasn't here with him, she was either still free, or… or nothing. She was fine.  

She had to be.

The man sighed elegantly.  “Please, do not take me for a fool, Mr. Abbott.”  The corner of his mouth twitched up. “The only reason Ms. Alvi is not with you presently is because… well, I'm sure you heard the explosion at Medulla Labs this morning.”

Everything inside of Logan stopped.  His heart stilled inside of his chest.  His blood froze in place. His lungs ceased to take in air.  The pain that persisted every inch of him was plowed away by an unwillingness of his entire body to operate.

Kaimi had told him she was going to Medulla Labs only a few days ago.  Her had eyes lit up, and she had bounced on her toes as she reported that she had a lead on The Savior.  He had apparently stolen plates of agar from there a while ago. She was going to go see if she could figure out why.

He should've stopped her.  

He knew.  

He should've stopped her.

“Is she…”  He couldn't speak.  The dead air inside of his lungs was unwilling to carry any words.

“Don't be dramatic, Mr. Abbott.”  The man arched an eyebrow. “I merely meant that her whereabouts are unknown.  We lost track of her in the chaos. If she's dead, we've yet to find a body.”

Logan’s lungs suddenly began working again, and he heaved in a shaking breath.  Kaimi was fine.

“What is not fine, however,”  The man continued. “Is the negative impact ‘The Truth’ is having on the community at large.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  Logan pushed his aching back against the wall, trying to sit up straighter, suddenly wary of displaying his injuries.

“I’m afraid you do.”  The man began to tick off on his fingers.  “The riot, the support of a villain, the slander against public officials, the tensions in our city, the divisiveness of it all…”  He trailed off, shaking his head as Logan tried to determine if it was bare or covered in gray hair.

“At the risk of sounding like Jack Nicholson, they can’t handle ‘The Truth’.”  The man smiled sadly. “As much as I wish it were another way, society merely isn’t equipped to handle such information.”

“Information,”  Logan snapped. “Deserves to be freely shared.  Ignorance is not bliss, it’s an ineffective and temporary deceit.”

“And that viewpoint, Mr. Abbott, is where our perspectives drastically differ and what landed you in a jail cell.”  The man leaned forward, bringing his forearm up to rest against the cell bars as he loomed. “Look at the riot. Look at the people tearing each other apart.  Look at what undermining the basis of our American belief system has done to society. Look at what happens when people don’t trust our elected officials.” His brow (was it large or small?  Long or short?) creased in concern. “Look at all of that, Mr. Abbott, and tell me that disseminating the information you spread is a good idea. The public at large simply can’t handle it.”

“Falsehood,”  Logan said.

The man paused, taken aback.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Knowledge is an incompriably valuable, multi-purpose tool that is instrumental in identifying or solving any problem.”  Logan told him. He pressed a hand into his aching side, and, ever so slowly, he began to inch his way up the wall, pressing his back against the cheap painted cement bricks for support.

The man watched with wide-eyes as Logan Abbott, recently beaten and bruised, already with chronic back pain and thrown into a filthy jail cell, began to stand.

“The only way for the public to avoid harm is for them to seek knowledge.”  Logan began to inch across the cell on shaking legs, steadily approaching the man.  “Knowledge is the greatest weapon and the greatest defense of the public-” He reached the cell bars and leaned heavily against them, his blackened eyes staring directly into the man’s. “-against people like you.”

The man reeled back, stunned as he made distance between himself and the astronomer.

“And knowledge about all of this-”  Logan gripped the bars, trying to take some of the weight of his body off of his quivering legs as he managed a smile.  “-is precisely what I’m going to share when I obtain my freedom.”

The man shook his head and smiled, so slightly that Logan was sure he wasn’t meant to see it.

“Well,”  He sighed.  “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”  He considered Logan with soft, worried eyes.  “I certainly hope, for your sake, that our paths don’t cross again.”  He tipped his hat. “Have a nice day now, Mr. Abbott.”

He sauntered out the door, and then he was gone.

 

“We need a plan of attack,”  Virgil muttered lowly, crouched next to The Prince on the rooftop.  They were peering over the edge, waiting for Remy to round the corner.  “As far as I can tell, he can’t control too many sand creations at once - his throne started crumbling when he was making this phoenix thing - so, when he gets here, what we can do is-”

“I have a plan,”  The Prince interrupted him as The Sandman came into their field of vision.

“Really?”  The Savior shot him a side glance.  “Okay, what is it?”

The Prince grinned, standing up and casually stepping over the edge of the rooftop.  “Attack!” He roared as he plummeted to the ground.

Virgil froze for a moment, absolutely stunned by the level of stupidity he had just witnessed.  “I swear…” He growled, breaking off into angry muttering as he leapt onto his bike. “That man is going to be the death of me.”  He opened the throttle and hurtled towards the ground, yanking up on the handles at the last moment to avoid dashing himself against the ground.

(Although, with the way his day was going, that prospect didn’t seem entirely dreadful.)

“-managed to catch me unawares once, heinous creature, but that shall not happen again!”  Roman was proclaiming dramatically.

Remy arched an eyebrow.  “Cool it, Shakespeare in the park.”  To Virgil’s shock, the other villain seemed completely unaffected by the prior acid attack.  His face was as unscarred as it had been before, but his eyes were once again concealed.

The Prince growled.  “That retort is ineffective as the bard often did actually perform his plays out of doors, and the Globe was an open-air theatre.”

Both villains stared at him for a beat.

“Princey, you sure that little nap of yours didn’t scramble the few brain cells you have left?”  Virgil eyed him warily.

“Yeahhhh,”  Remy drawled, slowly raising his arms, dozens of hulking sand creatures pushing up from the ground at his command.  “Imma just ignore that and skip to the fighting now.”

“Solid plan,”  Virgil concurred, stuffing gadgets from the bike’s satchels into his pockets.  “I’m ready.”

“Cool,”  Remy said, then thrust his hands forward, unleashing a frenzy.

The first wave was a blur of thrown fists and acid.  The sand golems were dumb, but there were _so many_ of them.  Virgil hurled acid, which was effective but limited.  He couldn’t see Princey through the waves of the enemy.  They surrounded him. Solid sand slammed into him like bricks of concrete.  He frantically tried different weapons. Water destabilized them. Fire did nothing.  Driving straight through them was surprisingly effective.

“I shall have you in handcuffs, Morpheus knock-off!”  The Prince roared as he blurred away from another onslaught, edging ever closer to The Sandman.

Remy grinned, raising an eyebrow.  “Don’t threaten me with a good time, hun.”

“Objection!”  Roman cried, slamming himself through a small army of sand golems.  “Panic! At the Disco references are Panic! At The Everywhere’s job.”  He jerked his head towards Virgil as he lifted an entire section of the street and slammed it on top of some golems.

Remy snorted, twirling his finger to make more.  “Okay, I think I like this guy.”

Virgil snarled.  “Give him a chance.”  Before either the Sandman or the Prince could go off on another tangent, he threw himself back into the fury.

Projectiles flew.  Blows landed. Wave after wave of foes approached.  Virgil found himself being backed into a corner by the sheer number of sand golems around him.

“Misery business!”  Roman cried, breaking away from his battle with the other villain to barrel through a row of the drones surrounding Virgil.

Virgil’s eyes darted around, calculating, as he took in his surroundings.  His gaze lighted on a water tower, and he smirked.

“I got this, your majesty,”  Virgil hissed sardonically as he urged his bike into a leap, landing on the other side of the sand golems.  “Go do something useful, would you?” He roared up the side of a building, slapping a detonator on the side of the water tower and riding away as it exploded, drenching the street below with water.  The golems dissolved instantly.

“Shut up-”  The hero dodged the projectiles The Sandman hurled at him, zipping in close to deliver a few devastating punches before being driven back again.  “-jerky mcjerk face!”

“Really?”  Virgil arched an eyebrow as he rode over the flattened sand, shooting fire out of his rear exhaust.  The wet sand dried into an immobilized plane. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I’m too busy fighting to think of a harmful nickname!”  Roman roared, finally toe-to-tow with the other villain.

“Okay, babes,”  Remy, smoothly blocking The Prince’s blows with walls of sand, chimed in.  “You two seem like you have some shiz to work out here.”

“No, we don’t!”  Hero and villain snapped in unison.

“Riiiiiiight.”  The Sandman arched an eyebrow.  “I’m, like, so just making up the heavy UST going on.”

Virgil threw a destabilizer, the same model as the one that had destroyed The Prince’s statues all those months ago, at the other villain’s defenses.  They immediately dissolved, heaving piles of yellow into the already strewn streets.

Roman zipped forward with his superspeed and barreled straight through the falling sand, landing a heavy blow on The Sandman’s jaw.  The other villain flew through the air, catching himself in a giant hand of sand.

“Oh-kay,” He smirked, holding up his hands in pseudo-defense as the sand gently lowered him to the ground.  He rubbed his jaw gingerly. “If you cuties don't want to work out your issues, that's up to you.”

Virgil snarled and hurled another vial of hydrochloric acid.

“I’m just saying-”  Remy ducked out of the projectile’s way and winced as it shattered open, burning up some of his sand.  “-I worked in the field for a while, and I know this really good couples therapist you could talk to. His name is Emile; he’s a bit of a nut but--”

“Rich coming from the guy who’s trying to take over the world,”  Roman snarked.

“Ooh!”  Remy exclaimed, dramatically lifting a hand to his mouth as he sent up another round of sand barricades.  “He’s rude too! Oh-em-gee, Savior, why didn’t you tell me?” He thrust a hand out, and a pillar of sand shot directly out at Virgil, knocking him backwards through the window of a nearby building before he had time to move.

“Honestly,”  Remy sighed as Roman screamed and rushed to Virgil’s side.  “Couple goals.”

“Are you okay?!”  Roman rushed to the villain’s side.

Virgil stared with wide eyes at a pipe, broken into a jagged point, uncomfortably close to where he had landed.  Two inches to the right, and he'd be dead.

Swallowing, he ignored the hero’s proffered helping hand and pulled himself to his feet.  “I'm fine,” He said tersely, pushing Roman away. He eyed the hero suspiciously. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

 _“Smiling_ at me like that.”

Roman felt the tension in his cheeks, and he realized that, yes, he was smiling like a besotted loon.  He shrugged, not able to bring himself to care. “I'm just glad you're okay.”

The villain’s scowling face flushed bright red.  “I'm still mad at you. Stop it.”

“Aww, why?”  Roman teased.  “I thought we were having a moment here.”

“There's a voyeuristic weirdo with sand for eyes eavesdropping on us.”

They both turned to look where, sure enough, Remy was standing at the window with his ear tilted towards them.  He grinned unabashedly. “Don't mind me.”

“Moment over, Princey.  Shut up.”

Roman heaved out an exasperated breath.  “Fine.”

Virgil put a hand on the shaft of the jagged pipe curiously.  It wriggled loose under his grasp. “Huh,” He said mildly.

Then he lunged forward and shoved the pipe through the Sandman’s torso.  The other villain looked down at it and sighed. Or, tried to sigh, at least.  It was hard, what with the steel rod piercing his lungs.

Remy dissolved into a pile of sand, aviators falling to the ground with a soft thump.  

Virgil froze in place, staring at the dune with wide eyes.  “Roman,” He said, shock destroying his silent vow not to say that name.  “What was that?”

Roman stalwartly ignored the happy glow that threatened to encase his chest at the sound of his name on the other man’s lips.  “How am I supposed to know?” He snapped.

“Jeez, I don’t know,”  Virgil snarked, slamming his walls back up as he swiveled his head to make eye contact with the hero.  “Maybe because, out of the two of us, you're the one who actually has experience with the freaky, mystic supervillains.”

“As opposed to just being one,”  Roman snarled, stepping through the shattered window to join Virgil on the street.

“Oh, okay, so that's how you want to play this, your majesty?”  Virgil curled his lip into a sneer and took a deliberate step forward.  “I thought I told you that we needed a plan of attack and you just go off and start hurling stuff at the guy?  What was that?” He jabbed a finger at the hero. “Were you even listening to me? Because you never have before!”

“I was listening to you!”  Roman cried. “You said that he can’t control a lot of stuff at once. I was distracting him so you could take him out!”

Virgil stilled.  “Oh.”

Roman took a tentative step forward.  “I always want to hear what you have to say, not-so-Good Charlotte.”  Gingerly, he took the hero’s hands in his own.

“Princey, I…”  Virgil licked his cracked lips, trying to fight down the surge of warmth that radiated from their joined hands.  “I…” His gaze drifted past the hero. “I think there’s something weird going on.”

The sand where the other villain had stood shifted, swarming a few feet to the left.

Hero and villain gaped as the dune rose into the shape of a man and solidified into Remy, looking annoyed.  “Honestly,” The other villain groused. “That was just r-u-d-e, rude! Do you know how dreadful it is to rebuild yourself entirely out of sand?”  He tugged at his jacket with a grimace. “It itches something _awful,_ let me tell you.”  He caught the horrified stares Virgil and Roman were sending at him and smirked.  “Oohh, gurls.” He snapped his fingers and was suddenly on a platform, posing dramatically.  “Did you really think that it was going to be that easy?” He leered at their linked hands. “I take it you didn't miss me.”

Hero and villain snapped apart.

Virgil’s brain took a moment to catch up, still reeling from the man's sudden reformation.  “Wait… that was real Teavana drink earlier? Not another sand prop?”

Remy snorted, waving a hand airly.  “Puh-lease, as if you could catch me drinking anything else.”

Roman, too, caught on.  “So you’re telling us that right before you decided to go on a rampage and destroy downtown-”

“-I’m redecorating-”

“-whatever helps you sleep at night.  You actually stopped to go to a Starbucks beforehand?”  Roman’s voice rose with incredulity.

Remy rolled his… things that apparently passed for eyes.  “No duh.”

Virgil, curious despite himself, leaned forward.  “Did you actually pay for it? Did they see your eyes?”

Remy theatrically placed a hand on his chest, fingers splayed dramatically.  “I'm a supervillain, not a common crook, babe. And what-” He flourished a hand, gesturing to his sunglasses- “do you think these stylin’ aviators are for?”

He subtly flicked his wrist as The Prince stepped forward.  “What're we waiting around for? I thought there was a fight going down.”

The hero set his jaw.  “Welcome to the bad parade, you find something to keep this guy in.  I'm about to turn him to limestone.”

“Right,”  The villain’s deadpan voice came from somewhere behind Roman.  “But before you do that…” Something in the villain’s tone made The Prince turn around.

He gasped, staggering back.  The villain was struggling against his encasement in a pillar of sand.  It stretched higher and higher into the sky, past the street lights, past the tops of office buildings, past the skyscrapers.

The villain was so many dizzying hundreds of feet above the hero.  Even so, they managed to catch each other’s eyes. Roman could see the anxious tremor that settled over the villain, betraying what his words did not.

The villain smiled, but the edges were wavering.  “You’ve got to catch me first.”

Then Remy snapped his fingers, the pillar of sand dissolved, and Virgil plummeted to the Earth.

 

Kaimi stood, frozen, as Calamity - or, Katrina as she had introduced herself - grinned up at her.

“I’ll be honest, peach,”  The vigilante stood and shuffled the papers on her clipboard.  “I did nawt see this one commin’.”

“Calamity?!”  Kaimi exclaimed.  “You work here?”

The woman in question shrugged.  “Gotta pay the bills somehow. Figured bein’ a research biologist seemed pretty nifty.”

“Wait…”  The reporter’s journalistic instincts were kicking in, putting together the puzzle pieces.  “So did The Savior really steal some materials from here a while ago? Did you see him?”

Calamity snorted.  “Saw him, tried to shoot him, got knocked out by The Prince for my troubles.  I swear up and down there is something mighty odd going on between those two.”

“Really?”  Kaimi’s eyes sparkled.  Her fingers twitched, wishing for the familiar feeling of a notebook and a pencil.  “So, Calamity, tell me-” She suddenly cut herself off, looking around guiltily. “Sorry,”  She whispered. “Am I blowing your cover here?”

“Nah,”  The vigilante said with a tinge of bitterness.  “No one seems to reckon they know who I am. Look-”  She grabbed the attention of a passing man. “Leo, you ever heard of that vigilante called Calamity?”

The giant of a man just gave a one-shouldered shrug.  “Nope.” And went on his way.

“See?”  Calamity rolled her eyes with a self-deprecating smile.  “I could get into a Stetson and chaps right here and no one woulda had an idea.  It's the dumbest thing.”

Kaimi, unsure how to respond to that, smiled hesitantly, tucking her hand into the crook of her arm.  “I… I had a really good time on our date the other night.”

“Yeah,”  Katrina agreed, the corners of her own mouth quirking up.  “We should do it again. Ya free after five? There’s a pizza joint down the block that uses Halal meat, and their hawaiian is ta die for.”

Kaimi gasped, mock-scandalized.  “You eat pineapple on pizza?” She hid her grin behind a hand.  “Heathen.”

They were too busy being gay to notice the thin trendles of sand sliding their way across the lobby floor, slipping into the main lab.

They did, however, notice when the lab blew up.

It happened so quickly that all Katrina noticed was that one moment, she was enjoying the way Kaimi’s lips curled when she was pretending not to be amused by Katrina’s teasing and the next the vigilante was lying on her stomach on the checkered lobby floor, breathless and stunned with a ringing in her ears.  Heat licked at her arms and she craned her neck to see that the lab behind her was spewing fire. Waves of tar black smoke billowed out of the open door, and shards of glass were strewn across the floor.

She recoiled in fear, hurling herself to her feet only to be harshly yanked back in place.  Her gaze dropped down to see that her left leg was pinned under a mound of heavy rubble. “Ain’t that just hunkey dorey,”  She hissed sardonically.

With a sudden jolt of fear, she realized that she couldn’t see Kaimi.

Her frantic gaze darted around the room, but she could barely see five feet in front of her and, with the smoke filling the room so quickly, that ratio dropped with every second.

“Kaimi!”  Calamity called, coughing into her fist as the noxious smoke reached ground level, pressing itself up her nose and down her throat.  “Kaimi! Where are ya?”

The heat was coming closer.  She felt as if she would roast alive any second.  She could practically feel the blisters bubbling up on her skin as the flames crept ever nearer.

A soft voice came from a few feet away.  “Over here!” The billowing smoke swirled and shifted, revealing Kaimi, soot-stained, shaken, and with a dripping red cut on her cheek, but okay.

The reporter’s eyes widened as she dropped to her knees by the vigilante’s side.  “Your leg!” She gasped.

Calamity looked at it cooly.  “Eh, it’s had worse.” She contorted her back, pulling up the leg of her scrubbs.

“How has it had worse?!”  Kaimi cried.

The vigilante rolled her pants leg up above her knee, revealing the space where her brown flesh melded into the dull shine of her prosthetic.  “I lost it.” She shot a glance up at the stunned reporter. “Imma need some help here, doll. I can’t doff it from this angle.”

“R-right.”  Kaimi shuffled down, eyeing the prosthetic with concern.  “How do I…” She took a steading breath, setting her jaw as she darted a glance at the nearing flames.  “How do I do this?”

“It’s a vacuum seal,”  The vigilante explained, trying to rotate to the reporter could reach the seal easier.  “There’s a lil’ white button on the edge. Just push and hold it while I drag myself yonder.”

They managed to free the vigilante, and she wriggled away from the rubble, grabbing Kaimi’s offered hand and pulling herself up.  “Thanks, peach.” She let go, teetering for a moment before balancing on her flesh appendage.

Kaimi looked around at the burning building, flinching away when a support beam crashed to the ground in a fiery shower of embers.  “Why haven’t the alarms or the sprinklers gone off?”

Calamity blinked, looking around.  She hadn’t even thought of that. “I reckon there’s somethin’ wrong with the system.”

Even through the thick, billowing smoke, Kaimi’s eyes sparkled.  “But this is a high-tech medical institution with regular system checks, right?”  A grin slowly spread across her face at the vigilante’s nod. “Then this fire was intentional.”

Calamity glanced towards the systems room, but the showers of sparks obscured her from seeing the thin line of sand trickling out from under the door.

“I appreciate the investigatin’ and all, but this building is fixin’ to take us down with it.”  Calamity hollered. “Just grab my leg and we can get outta here.”

Kaimi did so, heaving with all of her might and popping the leg free.  “Here.”

Calamity grinned wryly.  “Yah know, we really outta stop meeting in dangerous situations like this.”

Kaimi laughed, a tinge hysterically.  “Tell you what,” She said. “We get you to the hospital, I’ll pick us up a pizza, and you can tell me all about your tragic backstory.”

Katrina arched an eyebrow.  “And what, pray tell, makes yah reckon I have a tragic backstory?”  She swung her arm over the shorter woman’s shoulder for stabilization as she fit her leg back on.

“You’re a vigilante with a prosthetic leg and an obsession for making sure people remember you,”  Kaimi fired back. “Of course you have a tragic backstory.”

“Well, ya ain’t barkin’ up the wrong tree.”  Katrina gingerly pressed her foot against the ground, making sure it would hold up.  “There we go, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Katrina didn’t remove her arm from around Kaimi’s shoulders, and Kaimi didn’t ask her to.

They picked their way through the lobby, not that far in reality, but rendered into a marathon by the maze of burning beams and melted tile in their path.  Finally, they emerged out of the front doors, gasping for clean air.

“I,”  Kaimi huffed, bending over to place her hands on her knees.  “Freaking. Hate. Smoke.”

A subtle flick of the wrist sent Katrina’s pack of cigarettes into a trashcan across the street.

The reporter darted a glance back towards the building, and her eyes widened.  “Were other people in there?!”

“They’re fine,”  Katrina waved away her concerns.  “The lab’s pressurized and has several different compartments.  They pro’lly sealed themselves in the backroom. We got the worst ‘o it.”

Kaimi gave a hesitant nod, gaze still trained on the burning building as a worried crease formed between her eyebrows.

“Hey.”  Katrina gently tilted the reporter’s face away from the disaster and towards the Calamity.  “It’s fine.” She bunched her own sleeve down and pressed the excess material to the cut on Kaimi’s cheek.  “Trust me, darlin’. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a liar.”

Kaimi gazed at her for a long moment then nodded, pressing her cheek into the other woman's hand with the movement.  “Okay.” She grinned wryly. “Pizza and the hospital?” She pulled away and began walking. “Not necessarily in that order.”

Katrina fell into step beside her. “I’d like ta argue that order.  I know where my priorities are.”

“Nonnegotiable.”

“Dag-nabbit.”

Calamity suddenly stilled, holding an arm out to stop Kaimi.  “Hold your horses, doll,” She muttered lowly, peering around a corner.  “We got a couple’a badges.”

Kaimi shot her a look.  “Worried they’ll arrest you for the time you shot me?”

Calamity groaned.  “Let it go already.”

Voices drifted over to them.  “-aimi Alvi? She was last reported to be in this location.  There's a warrant out for her arrest… alright. Please contact us if you have any information.”

Katrina shot Kaimi a pseudo-scandalized look.  “My word, am I galavantin’ round with a bonafide criminal?”

Kaimi winced.  “I mean I am running a kinda sketchy underground newspaper.”

Calamity blinked slowly.  “Alrighty,” She drawled, peering back around the corner.  “We're just gonna havta figure out a way to get past-”

“Katrina…”  The shake in the other woman’s voice turned the vigilante around.  “You might want to brace yourself.”

That was the last thing she heard before a wave of sand overtook them, and they fell into a deep sleep.

 

Virgil hurtled to the Earth, wind whipping tears from the corners of his eyes.  He vaguely considered screaming, but the very breath was stolen from his lungs as he twisted through the air.  The ground was approaching alarmingly quickly, so Virgil flipped himself over, watching as the sky flew away from him.  Towers grew around him, and he allowed himself to pretend that he was lying on the ground, watching a city push its way into the heavens, not falling from them.  His coat slapped against his legs, an arrhythmic thrum that almost drowned out his screaming pulse. His arms lifted above him and his bangs flew madly about, blinding him then offering him a clear view of the ever-withdrawing sky.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what came next.

“Don’t worry.”  He was suddenly encased in warm, strong arms and the scent of the ocean.  “Everyone loves the villain, Lucifer.”

Virgil tentatively cracked one eye open, then the other, finding himself bridal style in The Prince’s arms.  “Oh, brother.” Virgil rolled his eyes even as he resisted the urge to nestle closer. “I’m going to murder you if that was a fallen angel comment.”  He said mildly, knowing the hero could hear his racing heart. Although, whether it was from their proximity or his near-death situation, he didn’t know.

“No,”  Roman lied.  “It was a straight from hell joke.”

“Hilarious.”  Virgil wriggled his way out of the hero’s arms, landing his scuffed combat boots against the ground.

“Aca-xcuse you!”  Remy called from the tower of the giant sandcastle he was creating.  “He’s gay from hell!”

“You already made that joke, and it wasn’t even that funny the first time!”  Virgil roared back.

“Yeah, sandy-randy-dandy!”  Roman jeered. “Get some new material.”

“Oh, honey.”  Remy snapped his fingers and the drawbridge of the sandcastle lowered; he sauntered out, wearing a sand crown and a smirk.  “I prefer the classics.” He clapped his hands together and the sand castle lowered itself, shifting closer to the ground, forming a broad back, sprouting a muzzle full of sharp teeth, unleashing claws the length of Virgil’s arm.

Virgil hissed out a curse under his breath; both he and The Prince took a few reflexive steps backwards.

Remy gestured to his creation with a broad sweep of the arm.  “Like the mighty prince battling a fearsome dragon!”

The sand dragon flared out its massive wings, driving them straight through the windows on either side of the street.  It arched its neck, peering down at the tiny humans through its flat, yellow eyes. It opened its gaping maw and roared, driving villain and hero back with the sheer force of the sound.

The Savior eyed the monster warily for a moment before giving Roman friendly slap on the arm.  “All yours, buddy.”

“Gee,”  The Prince muttered.  “Thanks.”

The hero charged headfirst into battle, zipping around the dragon faster than Virgil’s eyes could distern, and The Savior was left to stare down The Sandman.

“So,”  Virgil said casually, shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid picking at his skin.  “I don’t suppose I can convince you to give up the whole ‘taking over the world’ thing and get you on board with screwing with society?”

The Sandman just snorted and quirked an eyebrow, sending a solid wall of sand barrling at the villain.

Virgil was knocked back, landing on the ground with a thud.  “I take it that’s a no,” He gasped.

Remy laughed, but he seemed slightly winded.  There was no snappy retort.

The same, intoxicating rush that came over Virgil whenever he figured out how to build a particularly tricky machine hit the villain.  The Sandman was doing too much.

Virgil looked closer, noting the thin sheen of sweat on the other villain’s brow, the way his hands trembled.

The Savior pulled his torso up, and his hand landed on cold metal.  He looked down to see the jagged metal pipe. Despite it all, he smiled.

“Hey, Princey!”  He called.

“I’m a little busy here!”  The Prince cried, landing blow after blow on the dragon to no avail and not always managing to evade its claws.

“Shut up and catch!”  Virgil threw the pipe to The Prince, who caught it neatly as he leapt through the dragon’s grasping talons.

“What do you expect me to do with this?”  Roman barely dodged a vicious snap of the creature’s teeth.

“Be a stupid prince already.”

Roman took the steel pipe in his hands and flattened it with no effort, squeezing the end into a point until he wielded a sword.  It was an inopportune moment, but he couldn’t keep the beam off of his face.

“Alright, monster.”  He sped back and twirled the sword, grinning at the sound of steel slicing through air.  “I think I’ll stop going easy on you.”

“Come on, Sandy.”  The Savior whirled on the other villain, eyes flashing.  Virgil was bruised and battered and his limbs were shaking and he was exhausted, but he didn’t actually have to beat Remy.  He just had to get him to defeat himself. “What’s the hold up?”

The Sandman snarled and pushed his hands forward.  Whirling torpedos of sand hurtled towards the villain.  Virgil managed to dodge most, but one scraped down his arm, tearing fabric and skin.

He hissed in pain, frantically looking around for his bike, but it was buried somewhere under the endless, shifting dunes.

Meanwhile, Roman ducked in close to the dragon’s torso, slicing through one of its wings.  The monster howled in pain as the asundered limb crashed to the ground. It lept into the air and snatched Roman up in its sharp talons.  He hacked at its wrist to no avail. It threw him through a nearby building; his body smashed through several sheets of drywall.

At Remy’s command, the monster arched its back, a replacement wing bursting out from its torso.

The other villain’s skin began to lose some of its color.

_Keep him distracted._

Virgil's hand clenched over his wounded arm, and he forced himself to look directly at Remy’s horrific eyes.  “That all you got, slumber party?”

It was almost like a game.  A really dangerous, really scary game where the penalty for losing was death, but it was a game nonetheless.  Virgil had his actions and their effects. He just had to equip them in the right order. Taunt the other villain.  Dodge his attacks. Ignore your injuries. Ignore the blood dripping from your arm. Ignore the pain of sand ripping off your skin.  Ignore the fact that you’re so tired you want to drop dead. Ignore that The Prince isn’t making much of an impact on the dragon. Ignore that he’s getting tired too.  Watch the color slowly fade from the other villain’s face. Throw acid or a device or anything to keep him fighting. Keep going.

Taunt.

Dodge.

Ignore.

Fight.

Keep going.

He found his bike when he was slammed into the ground right on top of it.  He was going to have a giant bruise, but he had never been so glad to be injured.

The force of the dragon’s attacks had driven Roman back onto a nearby rooftop.  He was managing to parry and counter the worst of the onslaught, but his movements were sluggish with exhaustion.  His uniform was in tatters, and, any minute now, he’d be past the point of fighting back.

Virgil was hit with a sudden jolt of fear.  Roman was invincible, sure, but just how invincible?  Could he drop from exhaustion? Could the dragon suffocate him?  Could he be eternally immobilized? Could he be overpowered somehow?  The Sandman’s sleeping powers had worked on him earlier, after all.

Roman seemed to be hit with these same fears as well.  His movements lost their grace; he became a frenzy of flashing steel and jerky attacks.  He was quite literally backed into a corner, and he knew it.

“Looks like you're in trouble there, Princey.”  Remy smirked.

Virgil’s blood boiled.  “Hey!” He snarled.

He revved the engine and crashed his bike into the other villain, knocking him to the ground, just as Roman leapt down from the rooftop, slicing his sword through the dragon’s neck.  The head fell to the ground a few feet away from the hero.

“That’s my nickname, _”_  The Savior growled.

The Prince joined his supposed nemesis as the dragon began to lose its shape.

Remy gasped in pain as his creation crumbled.  “You got it, babe.” He looked at the hero and the dismounted villain looming over him and chuckled weakly.  “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”

The Prince placed his heavy boot in the middle of The Sandman’s chest.  “Nope.”

“Uugh, lame.”  The other villain sighed, tilting his head towards the setting sun so it cast an amber glow over his features.  “And I really liked these sunglasses too.”

Virgil suddenly caught on.  “Don’t you dare-”

But it was too late.  With a cheeky wink, Remy dissolved into sand and drifted away.

Roman’s boot and the aviators fell to the ground with a ponderous stumble and a soft clatter, respectively.  He lifted his boot and looked under it, as if he would catch the Sandman like that.

“You know,”  He said finally.  “I think I hate that guy.”

Virgil snorted.  “Mood.” An edge of ironic amusement curled his lips.  “At this rate, I’m going to have a list of nemeses.”

“A list?”  Roman theatrically placed a hand over his heart.  “I am wounded! I’m all the nemesis you ever need.”

“Don’t worry,”  The villain deadpanned.  “You’ve still got the top spot on my hit list.”

Around them, civilians slowly began to awake, coughing up sand and rubbing sleep out of their eyes.  The fires had reduced themselves to embers, and, off in the distance, wailing sirens neared.

“Oh,”  Virgil groaned.  “Now they show up.”

He stalked away from Roman and remounted his bike, straddling it.

The villain looked at the hero flatly, as if expecting something.  Roman simply stared back helplessly. The villain groaned.

“Get on,”  He snapped, roughly gesturing at the backseat of his hoverbike.  “We need to talk.”

 

Hours after his strange encounter, a medic had come in to tend to Logan's injuries.  The knives stabbing all of his limbs had retracted, leaving low, aching throbs in their wake.  A low cloud of fog still hung about his head, but he was able to breathe without feeling as if he would black out, so he was counting it as a win.

He was gingerly pointing and flexing his foot - remembering the dance classes his mother had enrolled him in as a child - to determine the exact extent of his injuries when a startlingly familiar voice kicked down the door and stormed into the room.

“Where is he?”  The voice demanded.

“Sir, please you're not allowed to be-”

“Not a sir.  And I'll be going wherever I please.”

The door down the hall flew open, revealing Patton and a frenzied cop trying to stop him.

Logan's eyes widened as he took in the baker.  Patton's snarling lips were painted an accusatory red, and his eyeliner was sharp enough to kill a man.  His chubby frame was encased in his typical polo and khakis, but anger rolled off of him in waves. With his gray cardigan flaring out behind him, he looked like the most fearsome type of avenging angel.  His brilliant blue eyes locked onto the astronomer, took in his myriad of injuries, and the anger turned into fury.

“Look, I-”  The cop, a portly man with a quizzical brow, stammered.  “You really can’t be back here-” His mouth closed with an audible snap as Patton whirled on him, icy blue eyes flashing with rage.

“What happened to him?”  The hurricane of a person demanded.

“I…”  The cop sent a frantic glance towards Logan, who was trying to decipher if he should be relieved, terrified, or infatuated.  He chose a combination of all three. “I’m not sure. He was brought into the station like that.”

Patton stilled, a lioness staring down an antelope.  “Give me the keys.” He held out a hand.

The cop, who looked about five seconds away from a heart attack, backed away.  “I really can’t-”

“Mr. Logan Abbott,”  Patton snapped, prowling forward.  “Was not informed of the full extent of his charges, nor was he given his lawfully required phone call.”

“H-how do you know?”  The cop quavered.

Patton’s baby blue stilettos clicked against the hard concrete floor as he followed the officer, step for step, until the man had his back against the wall.  Each soft click sent chills running down the cop’s spine. “Because,” Patton said, far too calmly for the scalding look he pinned the man with. “He would’ve called me.”

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on the officer’s brow.  “I really am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Give me the keys and I will.”

“This is highly against protocol, and I really can’t do that in good conscience,”  The officer stammered, desperately wishing for an escape route.

Patton tilted his head for a moment, considering, before unleashing his greatest weapon: Dad Mode.  “Now, kiddo,” He sighed, blue eyes softening. “I need you to know that I’m not mad at you; I’m just disappointed.”

“What?”  The officer’s eyes darted around in bewilderment as he tried to melt through the wall and away from this crazy paternal figure.

“I know that you’re just trying to do your job, and that’s a good thing!  I know you’re such a good police officer.” Patton gifted the man with his disarming smile before a tinge of sadness overtook his lovely features.  “But just look at that poor kiddo in there.” He slid out of the way, revealing Logan.

Logan did his best to appear pitiful.  It wasn’t much of an ardent struggle.

“Is it fair that he is hurting and he got put in jail-”  Patton glanced at his name tag. “-DeVante?”

“Well,”  He stammered.  “No, but-”

“-and!”  Patton interrupted.  “They didn’t follow the rules when they took him in.  I know you care about the rules, right?” He laid a soothing hand on DeVante’s arm.

“Yes, of course, but-”

“That’s good!”  Patton smiled at him kindly.  “It just isn’t fair that those people broke the rules, and I know you’re not like that.”  His expression became firm. “But you do become like that if you just let the bullies do whatever they want to.  You become a rule-breaking bully too. You don’t want that, do you, kiddo?”

DeVante slunk down, staring at his feet like a scolded child.  “No…” He muttered guiltily. Heat prickled at the corner of his eyes.

Patton fixed him with a stern paternal glare.  “And you don’t want to do the wrong thing, do you kiddo?”

The officer promptly burst into tears.  “No!” He wailed. “I don’t!”

“Shh, shh,”  Patton shushed him, rubbing soothing circles into his back.  “It’s okay, kiddo. Just give me the keys, and go get yourself a glass of water, maybe coffee and a donut, okay?”

The cop snuffled, rubbing at his eyes.  “Okay.”

Logan watched with bewilderment as the officer handed Patton the cell’s keys and shuffled out of the door, head hanging low.

“I’m proud of you, champ!”  Patton called after him.

On the other side of the door, another round of tears ensured.

“Hey, Lo.”  Patton padded towards him and unlocked the cell.

“Hello, Patton.”  Logan, more than a little terrified, squeaked out.  No one person should’ve physically possessed that level of power.  “I don’t suppose now is the appropriate time to confess that I lied to you.”

Patton smiled sadly.  “I know. I get your paper every day.”  He chuckled softly at Logan’s shock.

“What did- how-” Logan spluttered.

“You used the world ‘infinitesimal’ wrong in an article.”

Logan groaned.  If his entire body wasn't one giant bruise, he would've flopped onto the ground in the hopes that he dirty concrete floor would swallow him whole.

“I just didn’t say anything because I… I was just hoping you would trust me.”  Patton knelt down on the floor next to Logan. "Are you okay?"

Logan's arms and wrists were aching, his head was pounding, he was sure he needed to go to a hospital, and he had been scared out of his mind just minutes ago.  But somehow, looking at Patton, gorgeous, wonderful, kind, amazing Patton who had just roasted both him and a prison guard, he somehow managed to forget all of that.  “I love you.” He said.

Patton’s smile dimed slightly before coming back in full force.  “I love you too, silly! But that wasn’t what I asked.”

“I know.”  Logan licked his lips, tasting a coppery tang from a cut.  “And it is neither relevant nor the conversation we should be engaging in at this current juncture.  Nevertheless, it is the most important piece of information I now, or ever, have at my disposal.”

Patton’s face wasn’t shuttering closed exactly, but it was doing its best to veil any emotions behind his usual amiable facade.

Logan winced.  “Are you… mad at me?”

Patton ignored him and laughed, the sound overly bright in the jail cell’s gloomy interior.  “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Lo!”

“What?”

Patton’s smile was straining.  “You don’t think that telling me that you were running a secret newspaper that eventually would wind you up in jail was important?”

“In my defence, I didn’t know that I would wind up in jail.  You are correct, however, in saying that I should have told you.”  Logan took a deep breath. “I was wrong and I apologize.”

Patton nodded and started to say something, but Logan cut him off with a soft hand on his arm.  “You were incorrect, however, in stating that anything else was more important than my feelings for you.  I am not abashed of them on my behalf, but I am loath to force them upon you. I am aware that you deserve… a far better romantic match than a liar such as myself can provide.  But my feelings cannot be suppressed. Nor, do I think, that they should be any longer. Patton, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and adore you.

“I am a scientist.  I’m not good with words.  I can describe the exact hormones you release into my brain upon every contact, but I cannot tell you exactly how deeply you have changed me.  How you have supported and nurtured and defended me at every turn. Try as I might, I can never repay you or mean as much to you as you do to me. And, in my eternal selfishness, I confess to you once more:  I love you.”

Patton was trembling, but Logan was too.  Once he said the words it seemed impossible to say anything else.  All the confessions he had stored up over the years suddenly came pouring out.  Everytime Patton had laughed or made a dad joke or hugged him or touched him or smiled or frowned or cried at a picture of a puppy that was ‘just too darn cute’ or cared for him and Virgil or baked or hummed under his breath or treated the world with more kindness that it deserved or told a pun or forgot where he put his glasses or sashayed out of the house in a dress or tied a cardigan around his shoulders or _existed,_ an ‘I love you’ had threatened to fall from Logan’s lips.

And now, all of them did.  “I love you, I love you, I love you.”  His arms fell around Patton’s shoulders, and Patton’s hands stroked soothing circles into his back out of habit.  “I love you.” He murmured into the baker’s hair.

“You know, Lo.”  Patton’s voice was wavering and watery.  “For a smart guy, you can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

Logan immediately pulled back, as if burned, but Patton caught him, wrapping his hands around Logan’s forearms.  

“I’ve been in love with you since we met, Logan.”  Patton laughed, and his eyes were watering and his nose was bright red from crying and his glasses were crooked and his mouth was split in a blinding grin and he was everything Logan had ever wanted.

Logan leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against the baker’s.  His skin tingled wherever they were pressed together: forehead, arms, legs.  “Can I…” He trailed off, unsure.

Patton, however, sweet, wonderful, amazing Patton, didn’t need for him to elaborate.  He, as always, simply understood. “Get down here,” He laughed waterily, wrapping a hand around Logan’s tie and pulling him in for a kiss.

So the two had their first kiss - which was really more smiles pressing together than kiss - on the dirty floor of a jail cell with a cop - still sobbing from the lecture Patton gave him - in the other room.  Their glasses clinked together and Patton tasted faintly of salt and Logan wanted to breathe him in like oxygen until Patton was the one running through the veins under his skin.

They broke apart and Logan was pleased to note the dazed, flushed expression the baker wore.  Debauchery became him. “So…” Logan trailed a finger along the side of Patton’s face. “I take it you aren’t mad at me?”

Patton blinked, clearing his mind.  “Oh, no, I’m definitely pissed.”

A shocked thing halfway between a choke and a laugh died on Logan’s tongue.  

Patton reached for both of the astronomer’s hands and gave them a soft squeeze.  “But you’re right. There’s something that’s more important here.” Patton stood on warbling legs and offered Logan a hand.  “Come on, Lo. Let’s get out of here.”

Logan held it and rose.  He was still hurting and kneeling on the floor for such an extended period of time had only exacerbated his soreness, but he could never remember being happier.

“Well,”  Patton swung their hands merily between the two of them.  “Any more secrets you want to confess? Just while we’re here.”

Logan winced.  “Actually…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK!!! IT HAPPENED!!! :D
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who read / leave kudos / bookmark, and especially to those of you who leave comments! I love comments so.
> 
> Speaking of comments, do you have a theory as to who U. N. Owen is? A really interesting one was sent to my inbox a few days ago, and if you have one, I want to hear it! So, please, if you think you have an idea, comment! (None shall be confirmed or denied, but I still want to hear them)
> 
> A million bonus points to anyone who spots the Pride and Prejudice reference.
> 
> Next chapter will hopefully come out a bit quicker than this one did, but I refuse to tell you what to expect. It'll be an adventure for sure though.
> 
> and, as always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO, COWARDS
> 
> Thanks!


	16. Local Prince Dude is a Shakespeare Hoe, and You can Quote Me on That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a one very mild trigger warning?? Who am I???
> 
> Description of an emotionally manipulative relationship - skip "His brow creased; his voice wavered" through "Roman nodded shakily."
> 
> Enjoy ;)

Virgil’s vengefulness showed in his driving.

Roman knew that, in all likelihood, the villain wouldn’t smear them into the pavement before he took them to wherever they were going, but that idealistic type of thinking was very hard to maintain when desperately clinging to the patchwork leather seat as the villain took yet another turn at a million miles per hour, tilting his bike until they were practically horizontal.

On one hand, Roman couldn’t physically be hurt, so he had nothing to worry about.  On the other - ohmyGOSHhewasgoingtocrashthemintothegroundandRomanwoulddienohe’stooprettytodie.  He compromised by taking deep breaths and tightening his arms around the villain as he sped them through the night.

For stabilization only.

Obviously.

Roman clenched his jaw.  Actually, no.

Screw that.

For better or for worse - and he had a feeling it would turn out to be much, much worse - Roman was obsessed with the villain.  Infatuated, maybe. He wasn’t lying when he told Logan and Patton that he had no idea what love felt like (or if love was a word that could even apply to him anymore), but… obsession he knew.  Infatuation he could deal with.

So, yes.  Roman was completely, totally, helplessly obsessed with the insane man that kept hurtling them up the sides of buildings then down again for an intimate flirtation with the concrete, and he was absolutely smitten with the villain who had blown up his statue, robbed several banks, destroyed multiple monuments, and put graffiti on the capitol building.

No way this could end poorly.

Finally, the villain came to a stop on the top of a nondescript brownstone with a gravel rooftop bathed in moonlight.  The bike dipped and warbled dangerously in the air as Roman spilled off of it, so incredibly grateful for solid ground.  The villain dismounted much more gracefully and narrowed those impossible gray eyes at the hero.

“Okay.”  He pressed a button on the bike, and it stopped emitting a neon purple glow from the undercarriage, sinking slowly to the ground.  “You wanted to talk.” He turned to the hero, flipping down his hood and tugging down his half-mask. “So talk.”

The hero nodded, determined.  This was his chance. He was going to express his side of everything and clearly communicate with the villain.  He opened his mouth, ready to talk, and found that his mind had drawn a complete blank.

Oh no.

There was just so much he needed to say, and so much that they needed to talk about that he himself was unsure about.  He needed to express that he didn’t love Missy. He needed to explain his behavior. He needed to ask where they stood, what they were doing, what this stupid, impossible, amazing, wonderful thing was between them.

“Look,”  He finally said, running a frustrated hand through his hair.  “I'm an idiot, okay?”

Virgil stared at him, one eyebrow arched.

Roman looked back expectantly.

Virgil tucked his hands into his pockets and waited.

Roman began to tap his foot.

This continued for awhile.

Finally, Virgil broke.  “If you're waiting for me to disagree, this is going to be a long night.”

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to respond,”  Roman snapped. “That is typically how a conversation works, isn’t it?”

“Kudos to you for knowing that, your highness!”  Virgil sarcastically waved his hands in the air. “Good to see your communication skills aren’t as poor as you make them out to be.”

Whatever sassy retort Roman had in mind for that particular quip was knocked out of his mind when he saw the palm of Virgil’s left hand.  He instantaneously blurred to the villain’s side and grabbed his hand. “What happened?” He cried, gently running his fingers over four crescent-shaped scabs.

Virgil snatched his hand away, curling it into a fist.  Something inside of Roman’s chest cracked open when he saw that his fingernails lined up perfectly with the scabs.  “I was a little upset watching you so happily accept Missy Darnelle’s proposal.”

Well, that was one way to segway the conversation.

“She's a mind reader,”  Roman confessed quietly.  Might as well start there.  “That's her Ability.”

Moon-gray eyes looked up at him, startled.  “What?”

“I can’t keep any secrets from her.  Literally.” Roman laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair.  “She knows everything I’m doing, so there’s no use in even trying to do anything she wouldn’t approve of.”

“How is that stopping you, Princey?”  Virgil demanded, stepping forward aggressively, gray eyes flashing.  “She can't make you do anything! You're a freaking superhero. You're your own person.  Just say no and make her get over it.”

“I couldn’t deny her because she controls everything about me!”  He snarled, wishing he could simply howl out the hot coal of rage festering in his chest.  “My entire life is someone else’s idea!”

“Then marry her, and _you_ get over it.”  Virgil snapped.

Roman shook his head hopelessly.  “But I don't want to! I don't want to marry her! I… I don't even love her!”  He tore the golden ring off of his finger, holding the beautiful band at arms length and eyeing it like a particularly repulsive cockroach. “I don't want this.”  

He rolled his thousand-ton burden into the palm of his hand and closed his fist, squeezing until his knuckles turned while.  His fingers relaxed and unfurled to reveal a tiny, misshapen scrap of gold. He smiled at it and tilted his hand, letting the crumpled ring clatter to the rooftop.

With satisfaction shining in his eyes, he looked up and realized with a start that the other man had approached him.  

“You really don't want her?”

Roman took a step forward.  “No.”

Feet shuffling over gravel.  “Then what do you want?”

“Take a wild guess.”

The villain chuckled, dark and low.  “I've got a pretty good idea.”

They were excruciatingly close now.  Roman could feel the other man’s breath on his cheek.  The world seemed to fade around them. It was like he always saw in his Disney movies.  The hero and his love standing together, the world saved, villain conquered, and future ripe for the taking.  There was nothing he wanted more than to lean forward and close that small gap between them, but he turned his head away.

“No. Stop.”  He breathed, voice ragged.  “I'm sorry, We can’t do this.”

Roman’s (his what?  His fascination? His nemesis?  His literary foil?) companion stilled.  “Why not?”

“Like it or not, I have a fiancée.”  Roman stated, his voice shaking mournfully.  “I can’t just… I’d have to break things off with her first or it’s not fair to either of you.  I’m a good person, remember?” He questioned almost bitterly. He looked at the other man, the hollow space in his ribs ever-widening and ever aching.  “And you’re a villain.”

The other man immediately stepped back.  “A villain?” His voice was filled with a venom that Roman had hoped to never hear again.  “Is that what you really think of me?”

“Yes,”  Roman lied then shook his head.  “No.” He inhaled, forcing starlight-drenched air into his lungs in a futile attempt to clear his head.  “I don’t know how to describe you. You’re…” He exhaled forcefully, jaw working. He thought of his perfectly white apartment, his perfectly beautiful fiancée, his perfect celebrity status, the perfection demanded of him daily.  “You’re the one thing in my life that isn’t perfect.”

“Is that what I am?”  The other man snapped.  “A way to rebel against society?  To sock it to your perfect little life?  God forbid you associate with a flawed human being!”

“No!”  Roman cried vehemently.  His companion started at the fervor in his voice.  “You’re… You’re…”

“Cat got your silver tongue?”  The purple-haired man quipped, eyes darting to the rooftop’s edge, calculating how quickly he could escape.  “I know I don’t mean anything to you, Princey, there’s no reason to rub it in.”

Roman had always been good with words, but he had never been as eloquent as he desired.  English was not his mother tongue, but then again, he had never felt like Spanish was either.  If anything, thought was his native language. No matter how he tried to shape his dialect, the worlds always felt stilted, dull and bland when compared to the potency and purity of his thoughts.  He was aggressively right-brained, feeling rather than expressing. He was less himself when he spoke aloud.

That didn’t mean, however, he would ever stop trying.

“You’re my motivation!”  Roman burst out. “You’re what drags me out of bed half the time.”

The other man’s spine stiffened, and Roman knew he was listening.  

“My entire life I’ve been told to be a hero and I love it, I really do.  But it’s a part that I never get to stop playing. You’re the first person to look at me and actually see me, Roman, not just the Prince.  You’re infuriating and you’re smart and you’re more than my match in every possible way.” Roman’s voice cracked. “You’re what keeps me from just floating through life and you’re what forces me to live it.”

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed, bittersweet.  “You make me better.

“You’re my obsession and my passion and my everything, but you’re the _bad guy_ and I’m supposed to be a good person!  And I am a good person! I won’t even kiss you, however much I long to, because I won’t cheat on a woman I only ever dated to try and find a fraction of the life that you bring me.  I never loved her, and I doubt she has ever loved me! But I _can’t_ because that’s not how the story is supposed to go.  You’re the villain. I’m the hero. And we can’t change that.  

“But you’re still my last thought before I fall asleep and my first thought in the morning.  You have bewitched me, body and soul, and it doesn’t make sense! It’s so stupid that I’m obsessed with you; I don’t even know your name!”

Roman’s companion was silent for several long moments.  “You really think I’m the bad guy?”

“Yes.”  He lied.

“And you won’t kiss me because that would be a bad thing to do and you’re a good person?”

“Yes.”

They were three steps too close but two steps too far apart.  “But… you do want to kiss me?”

Roman’s breath hitched.  “Yes.”

The villain took a step forward then another.  Roman felt every molecule in his body straining against itself, his wanting desperately to be closer, to melt into the villain until there was nothing separating them, warred with his fear.  He wasn’t the only one afraid; he could hear the other man’s heart thudding in his chest.

The villain smiled impercibly.  “Then _let_ me be the bad guy.”   

He leaned forward and kissed him.  

Not for the first time, Roman was overwhelmingly grateful for his supersenses.  He could feel the other man’s heart rate spike. He could feel every single detail of his chapped lips, smoky and sweet.  He could feel his pulse, the warmth of his body everywhere they were pressed together. Unable to stop himself, he nipped gently on the other man’s lips, swallowing the shaking moan that erupted.

It was the exhilaration of riding Maximus through the cold night, biting wind snapping at him and coursing adrenaline through his veins.  It was every battle hard-won, every taste of victory, every life saved. It was lightning running down his spine and his fingers threaded in soft, purple hair;  It was the taste of raspberries and dark chocolate and mint toothpaste. It was chapped lips pressed against his mouth, calloused hands cradling his face like it was something precious.  

It was the first devotion ever given to Roman, the man, not The Prince, hero of man.

All too soon, the other man pulled back.  “Virgil.” He murmured, afraid any noise would break the delicate spell woven between them.

“What?”

“My name is Virgil.”  

Roman repeated it; the name fell from his lips like a prayer.  “Virgil.”

“You’ve…”  Virgil breathed but stopped, unable to finish his sentence.

“I’ve what?”  Roman playfully nudged his nose against Virgil’s, glowing with joy.  “Gotta catch you first?”

Virgil laughed breathlessly, pressing their foreheads together.  “You already have.” He made a soft sound and slowly pulled himself away, rummaging around in one of his many pockets and pulling out a small black cube.  “This is for you, by the way.” He tossed it underhand, and the hero easily snatched it out of the air.

He peered at it curiously.  “What is it?”

“It’s a stim toy.”  Virgil’s fingers started picking at the skin at the side of his thumbnail.  “Remember when you took me to the cliff, and you said that you have to focus on one thing sometimes to keep from getting overwhelmed?”  He nodded at the cube, hands still picking at his skin. “It’s got different textures and things to fiddle with and… yeah, you get it.”

Throat suddenly clogged, Roman swallowed deeply.  “You made this for me?” He asked softly, hardly daring to believe it.

Virgil shrugged, over-nonchalant.  “That night.”

“Oh,”  Roman sighed, appreciative.  He experimentally ran his fingers over each side - a rough, sandpapery texture, a perfectly smooth face, a row of deep ridges, a line of movable beads on wire, a groove for his thumb, and a section with soft plastic filaments sticking up.  He hefted it in his hands, realizing with bliss that it was weighted. When he held it up to the silver moonlight, it glittered red. “It’s sparkly too!” He cried in delight.

“Thought you might appreciate that.”  Virgil’s mouth quirked up in a half-grin.

“I love it,”  Roman confirmed, grinning.

Virgil’s hands stilled.  “Okay, good.” But then they started up again.  “Listen, Princ- Roman, I’m not…” He wavered, studiously looking at the empty air over his hero’s shoulder.  “I could never do what you just did, okay? I can’t do the sweeping declarations or dramatic gestures; I’m just not that type of guy.  But, if you’re wondering how I, um…” He faltered, fingernails unconsciously plucking at his flesh. “If you’re wondering how I feel, that’s it.”  He nodded at the cube in Roman’s hands.

“Oh,”  Roman repeated softly as he held Virgil’s heart in his hands.  He ran his fingers over the cube again, marveling at how it grounded him, and stepped forward, entangling the fingers of his free hand with one of Virgil’s, keeping him from pulling at his skin.  “I'm not going home.” He said impulsively. “And I don't think you should either.”

“What?”  Virgil’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t pull away.

“Spend the day with me,”  Roman said, the idea growing roots, entangling itself in his thoughts.  “Twenty-four hours. One day where we can just… just be us.”

Virgil shook his head.  “And what happens after that?”

Roman shrugged extravagantly, hiding his anxiety under an armored coat of nonchalance.  “Sounds like a problem for future us.” He squeezed their conjoined hands lightly, pleading.  “Come on, dark and stormy knight.”

Virgil’s throat worked, swallowing deeply, but he said nothing.

“I just…”  Roman smiled, bittersweet.  “I just don’t want to say goodbye yet.”

Virgil started to refuse, but the way Roman was looking at him, the way their hands felt clasped together, the way rose petals brushed against his sides, stopped his words before they fell from his lips.  “Okay,” He said instead. “Okay, I’m in.” He squared his shoulders and looked the hero dead in the eyes. “We need rules though.”

“Rules?”  Roman repeated skeptically, eyebrow arched.

“Yes.”  Virgil said firmly.  “If we do this, we’re going to do it right.  We’re not The Savior and The Prince, not a villain and a hero; we’re Virgil Sanders and Roman Garcia.  We’re not doing to do anything stupid or hold anything back because of angst. We’re going to spend the day like there’s no tomorrow, okay?”

“No tomorrow.”  Roman nodded. “I can get behind that.”  He gazed up at the inky darkness blanketing New Psyche.  “What about sunrise? Not this one, but the next. That’s when tomorrow happens.”

“Okay,”  Virgil agreed, pressing a kiss to the back of Roman’s hand and grinning when the hero flushed bright red.

The engineer was suddenly and painfully aware that he was still wearing his villain outfit and that Roman’s prince costume was hanging off of him in tatters.  “I think we’re going to have to get changed first though.”

 

“I’m fine, Patton, I promise,”  Logan assured the baker. “I’ve got ice packs, and the doctor said that all I can do for the cracked ribs is to rest.”

“And doing those breathing exercises!”  Patton insisted, thrusting the packet of said exercises at him.

“And doing those breathing exercises,”  Logan agreed, taking it.

Patton nodded slowly, the worried crease between his eyebrows lessening but never quite disappearing.  “You’re sure you’ll be okay at home?”

Logan pressed a kiss to his forehead, gratified when he pulled back to see that the crease had almost vanished.  “You’re just as exhausted as I am, Patton. I assure you I will be able to rest much easier knowing that you’re also taking proper care of yourself.”

“Okay,”  Patton sighed, still dawdling on the doorstep.  “Good night then.”

“Good morning actually.”  The astronomer checked the cracked face of his watch.  “It’s nearly three am.” He fiddled with his keys, darting looks at the shorter person.  “But, yes, sleep well.”

Neither of them moved.

Patton took a tiny step forward.  “Be safe, okay?” He rose into his tiptoes, and Logan leaned down, kissing him.  Patton broke away, grinning. “I love you.”

Metaphorically, Logan's heart leapt.  Metaphorically, it danced and somersaulted and did a number of complex aerial maneuvers, and literally, it began to beat really hard.  “I love you too.”

“Sweet dreams, Lo.”

“Rest well, Patton.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

 

“Just so you know, my apartment is a steaming dumpster fire,”  Virgil blurted out. They were climbing the narrow, rickety stairs to his place, and while Roman had probably gathered by now just how poor the engineer’s living conditions were, it was worth verbalizing.  Virgil was starting to think there actually was something to this whole ‘healthy communication’ thing after all.

The other man shot him a strange look.  “Okay?”

“Just don't say I didn't warn you,”  Virgil muttered ominously, fitting his key into the lock and swinging the door open on its creaking hinges.

He stepped inside, plucking at the side of his hand as he watched the hero take in the dim, flickering lighting, the stained rug, the leaking ceiling, the rickety furniture.

Roman looked around the tiny space, nodding his head slightly.  “I've been in so much worse, Benjam-in-a Coffin the Third.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, slipping past the other man to perch on the kitchen counter.  “What are you talking about?” He swung his feet idly through the air, eyeing his surroundings with distaste.  “This place is garbage.”

“Oh, so you want me to cancel the MTV Cribs crew?”  Roman teased, coming to stand next to him.

“No, please.”  Virgil raised his hands in mock-surrender, a smile curving the edges of his mouth.  “There is nothing that sounds more thrilling to me than becoming a living meme.”

“Already there, Virgil from Target.”  Something inside of Virgil thrilled at the way Roman said his name: a delicate bite on his bottom lip, a hollowing of his cheeks, a flick of his tongue as he begrudgingly let the final ‘L’ escape his mouth, as if in slow motion.  As if he didn’t want to let something as precious as the other man’s name be gone in the span of only two syllables.

“Was that an Alex from Target rip-off?”  He scoffed instead of communicating any of this.  “Weak.” He gently knocked his shoulder against the Cubano’s, although more for consideration of his own health from anything else.  “Go back to the Rent references.”

“It was a spin-off and a clever one at that!”  Roman stuck his nose in the air, trying to hide his smirk.  He peaked one eye open to take in the purple-haired man’s reaction and found him looking back with equal parts exasperation and fondness.  “Seriously though,” Roman digressed, turning to Virgil. “It’s not that bad.” He stopped and took in a deep breath through his nose, head tilted.  “It smells like you.”

Virgil blanched.  “I smell like mildew?”

“No!”  Roman rushed to correct him.  “It’s more like… I can tell that you spend a lot of time here because it has the same scent profile as you, I guess?”  His voice slowed and drifted higher at the end of his sentence as he began to question his own inadequate skill with the English language and his entire existence.  “You don’t spend a lot of time here in the kitchen, right?” He waited on Virgil’s slow nod to continue. “I can tell because your scent is fainter here, while it’s really strong over on the couch.  It’s kinda… not quite spicy… more like how the air smells after an electric storm mixed with oil.”

Virgil blinked.  “Wow.”

Roman groaned, hiding his face in his hands.  “I’m trying really hard not to sound like a creepy alpha male in a terrible YA book right now and failing terribly.”

The other man grinned.  “You said it, not me, Jacob Black.”

“A Twilight reference?”  Roman cried, snapping his head up, scandalized.  “You, sir, have no room to critique my excellent meme references when you dare draw upon the trashiest of all books.”

Laughter crinkled the corners of Virgil’s eyes.  “I make no apologies.”

“Unbelievable.”  Roman threw his hands in the air.  “I’m leaving now,” He announced, then proceeded to flee all of five steps.

“Get away of the century,”  Virgil deadpanned, slipping off of the countertop to shrug off his villain coat.  He grimaced at the tear on the sleeve and the shallow wound on his arm. “I need to fix this up.”  He said, although it was unclear which he was referencing. He glanced up at the hero. “You can take a shower if you want to.”

Roman ran a hand through his hair - stiff with brine and prickly with grit - and grimaced.  “I'm going to find sand in places sand should never be found.” He prophesied darkly.

Virgil groaned.  “I never want to see sand again as long as I live.  The beach can go fuck itself.”

“Big Mood,”  Roman muttered.  The other man looked up at him, startled, before the two shared a small, secretive smile.

“It's through the door there and to the left.”  Virgil nodded his head in the direction of his bedroom door, rummaging through a drawer for thread and bandages.  “It is literally impossible to miss. Just steal some of my clothes when you’re done. The shower is the approximate size of a postage stamp, and I apologize in advance.”

“Never fear, committer-of-sins-not-tragedies; I shall prevail.”  Roman ambled through the door, called “I’m opening your window blinds; it’s way too gloomy in here!” and, a minute or so later, the sound of running water drifted back out.

Virgil finally found what he was looking for and plopped down, cross-legged on the couch.  He gingerly sprayed some antiseptic onto his arm, hissing slightly at the sting. It was a shallow wound, yet it ached disproportionately.  He poked at the gash, trying to discern if there were any debris that needed to be removed from the displaced skin. Finding none, he carefully wrapped the limb with a roll of bandages.

He picked up the jacket with almost enough pockets to hold all of his secrets, and he threaded a needle.  He sewed up the tear with quick, efficient stitches. With the number of injuries he had sustained over his villainous career, he'd become quite a capable sartor of fabric and flesh.

Task done, he rested on the couch a moment.  With a sudden jolt of anxiety, he realized what exactly was happening.  The Prince was in his apartment. Virgil had kissed Roman. They had fought a supervillain together then kissed then went to his apartment.  He waited a moment and listened. Roman had come to his apartment and was now taking a shower while belting out showtunes. Virgil threw his head back and wondered vaguely when his life had become a soap opera.

Over the next few minutes, he half-dozed, half-panicked on the couch as the sound of Roman singing what seemed to be the entire Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack drifted in from the other room.

Somewhere between the Music of the Night and Virgil losing himself completely to unconsciousness, the water shut off.

“Hey, virge-of-a-nervous-breakdown?”  Roman sauntered into the room, smirking.  His borrowed shirt stretched obscenely over his chest, and he hadn’t even attempted to squeeze into any of Virgil’s pants, instead pulling on his dirtied Prince trousers.  “I don’t think this’ll quite work.”

Horror crept over Virgil, wrapping around his neck.  Grim resolution colored his voice as he set his jaw. This could only mean one thing.  “I guess we'll have to go shopping.”

 

Logan was beaming when he walked into the living room that morning.  Kaimi, who was lounging on the couch, texting a certain vigilante with one hand and typing up an article on workplace discrimination with the other, smirked when she heard his humming.  “You're in a good mood.” She raised a teasing eyebrow. “And you didn’t come home last night.”

Logan didn't even try to fight off the silly grin taking over his face.  “I kissed Patton. Twice.”

“Took you long enough.”  Kaimi nodded approvingly, still not bothering to look up from either of her devices.  “Tongue?”

“Yup.”

“Sweet.”

He wandered into the kitchen.  “Do we have any ice packs?”

“Do you need one?”  Kaimi glanced up, then did a double take.  “Logan!” She sat up, alarm worrying at the edges of her eyes.  “You look like death warmed over!”

Logan's grin didn't falter.  “But I kissed Patton,” He announced proudly, as if he didn't have a rapidly swelling black eye.

“And he beat you up for it?”

“No, that was the police when I got arrested.”

Kaimi pursed her lips and sent off a quick text. _Hang on, Kat.  Something just came up._ She opened a new Microsoft Word window, titling it ‘The Epidemic of Brutality’.  “You're going to have to start from the beginning.”

 

“How do I look?”  Roman purred, stepping out of the changing room in a sinfully tight pair of jeans and a rugged army jacket.

Virgil, sitting on a chair in the area outside, arched an eyebrow.  “With your eyes.”

Roman huffed and stepped back behind the curtain.

“What about this?”  He reappeared in a full three-piece suit, grinning.  “Pretty James Bond, huh?”

Virgil glanced up then went back to tapping on his phone.  “No good.”

Roman made offended Prince noises.

“This one?”  He demanded, wearing a blue-striped button-up and white jeans.

Virgil surveyed him cooly.  “Nah.” He went back to scrolling through Tumblr, but he barely glanced at his phone for a second before Roman reappeared in a new outfit.

Apparently, using superspeed to try on clothes was classified as benevolent usage of Abilities.

“Okay, American Hi-fashion, surely you like this one.”  Roman held out his arms, grinning, as Virgil took in his ripped black skinny jeans, graphic T-shirt, and black leather jacket.

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “No, that's just stealing my look.”

“I don’t get you!”  Roman cried, tossing his hands in the air.  “I look fantastic in all of these clothes and the best I’ve gotten from you is a ‘nah’.  I, sir, am not the recipient of ‘nah’s, I am the recipient of ‘yah’s!”

The fashion critic rolled his eyes.  “Okay, Princey. And yes, you do look good in everything, but that’s the problem.  We’re going for inconspicuous here.” He hesitated slightly. “And you don’t seem to be picking anything that’s really… you.”

Roman flipped from preening at the complement to startled.  “What do you mean?”

“Roman,”  Virgil leveled him with a look.  “Every single outfit you’ve picked out is _literally_ straight off the mannequin.”

The pile of naked mannequins Roman had tossed in the corner stared at him accusingly.  He winced. “Point taken.”

“Just…”  Virgil waved a hand vaguely.  “I don’t know, try something new.  Something you’re comfortable in.”

Roman wandered through the rows of clothing racks, flipping through garment after garment aimlessly.  He really wasn’t used to shopping for his own clothes. He and his abuela hadn’t been able to afford that many new things when he was little, then it was a string of government-issued civvies and his Prince uniform, then it was whatever Missy dressed him up in.

He glared at a pastel blue shirt as if it had personally insulted his ancestors.  This was so stupid. All he had to do was pick out an outfit that he actually liked.  He steered himself away from the empty stands where the mannequins had once posed and the confused employees surveying their absence, veering into the clearance section.  He poked at a garish lime green sweater, scowled at a plain white button-down, and eyed a hideous fuschia crop top like it was about to reach out and grab him. He flipped through hangers, frustration and discontent growing in his stomach until he felt like he could cry.

He couldn't even pick out his own clothes.

Desperately, he tried a different tactic, closing his eyes and running his fingers over the fabrics, trying to find one his senses could tolerate.  His heightened perception of… well, _everything_ made some textures just unbearable.   _No, no, no, no,_ he moved his hand faster, eyes scrunched shut and brow furrowed, _no, no, no- yes._  His eyes opened to see his hand clutching a satiny pink blouse.

He swallowed thickly.  Oh.

Ten different alarm bells were ringing in his head, voices screeching at him that it just wasn't masculine enough, but it just felt so nice against his fingertips.  He checked the tag, hoping that it would make decision for him. Nope, it was exactly his size. Hesitantly, he pulled it off the rack.

Ponderously, he went into the dressing room and changed into it, marveling at the soft slide of satin over his skin.  It fit well.

He stepped out gingerly, wondering if it was possible to buzz out of his own skin with uncertainty.  “What do you think?”

Virgil looked over Roman, nodding slowly.  “Not too shabby, pretty boy.”

‘Pretty boy.’  Roman mouthed the words to himself, a small smile curling his lips.  “I kinda like that,” He said aloud, then turned to himself in the nearby three-way mirror and frowned.  “Not this though.” He leaned forward, scrutinizing. “Still a bit too princely.” A small smile crossed his face.  “I like the color though.”

“Well, come on then, pretty boy,”  Virgil laughed, tossing him a collared shirt.  “We'll make a commoner out of you yet.”

 

“Then the man with no discernable form started talking about you,”  Logan continued as Kaimi padded around their kitchen, brewing them both mint tea.

“Oh, a sketchy government employee knows my name,”  The journalist said dryly, darting over to her laptop to type up a quick note.  “That’s not concerning at all.” Silence reigned for a moment, and she darted a glance at him.  “You okay there?”

Logan cleared his throat, taking off his glasses to clean them.  “Aside from the obvious, my condition is more than satisfactory.”  His hand stilled for a millisecond before resuming the soothingly rhythmic motion of sliding cotton in circles over perfectly smooth glass.  “I was merely malcontented for a moment. He implied that you had passed away in the explosion at Medulla Labs.”

Kaimi snorted.  “It'll take more than a little explosion for you to get rid of me.”

“Excellent.”  The astronomer slid his glasses onto his nose, found some nonexistent flaw, and took them back off, blurred vision trained on his hands.  “I would be rather… put out to, once again, be deprived of your company.” His vision wasn’t blurred only due to his lack of glasses. “You are, after all, my best friend.”

Kaimi froze, tea bags hovering over their mugs.  (And each of them did have ‘their mug’ by now. She drank from a pale green mug with a picture of a camera that read “I call the shots”, and he had a navy blue mug emblazoned with SHERLOCKED in silver.)  “Is that right?” She said, coming back to life after a brief moment and pouring in the hot water. “I thought that position was taken by Virgil and Patton.”

“Well,”  Logan said wryly, still gazing blindly at his hands.  “Unless I have grievously misjudged a prior situation, Patton has recently been shifted over to datemate, leaving a vacancy.”

“Wow,”  The reporter deadpanned.  “Second choice. I’m flattered.”  She slid his mug across the counter, kindly ignoring the tears gathering in his eyes.

She hesitated for a moment, eyeing him with concern as he sipped robotically at his tea.  She opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a jar of Crofters. She made to put a piece of bread in the toaster but decided to simply present the jar to Logan with a spoon.  

Kaimi slid it to him, smirking when he instantly perked up.  She sat beside him and shifted slightly, pressing their calves together comfortingly.  “I’m here,” She murmured, low and into her mug of tea so they could both pretend it didn’t happen.  “I’m here, and I’m fine. I promise.”

Logan nodded firmly, blinking rapidly a few times.  “Thanks,” He murmured, low and into his mug so they could both pretend it didn’t happen.  They met each other's eyes over the rims of their cups, and they smiled. “So,” He said finally, setting his drink down with a soft click.  “What exactly is…” He wracked his brain for the correct phrase as he popped open the jar of jam. “The ‘low-down’ on this girl who shot you?”

She snorted.  “We’ve got to update your vocab cards.”  But her eyes still sparkled as she began to fill him in.

 

Virgil was just making the proper appreciative noises over Roman’s five millionth outfit when his phone went off.   _You are my daddd~_  It sang out.   _You’re my dad!  Boogie-woogie-woogie!_

Roman stuck his head out from between the changing room curtains.  “Why are you watching vines when you could be watching me?” He cried impetuously.

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “It’s just Patton’s ringtone.  He set it, and I couldn’t figure out how to change it.”

Laughter tugged at the corners of Roman’s lips.  “You’re probably the world’s best engineer, a genius, and a nerd who actually does sudoku puzzles-”

“-I told you that in confidence-”

“-and you’re telling me that you don’t know how to change your ringtone?”

“I’m ignoring you.”  Virgil declared, then hit the answer button.  As the line was connecting, he shot a half-smirk at Roman.  “But if you think Patton’s is bad, wait until you hear Logan’s.  His service sucks so he doesn’t call a lot, but man...” He stifled a snort of laughter as he pressed his phone to his ear.  “What’s up, Pat?”

“I kissed Logan!”  Patton proclaimed.

Virgil dropped the phone.

Roman crossed the room and grabbed it before it could hit the ground.  He lifted the phone to his own ear. “You did what!?” He exclaimed in delight.

“Eugh, Princey, put on a shirt.”  Virgil threw a coat hanger at the hero.  “No one wants to see that.”

Roman, in his eternal pettiness, flexed.

“I hate you,”  Virgil muttered sullenly.

“Roman?”  Patton asked.  “Is that you?”

Roman grinned.  “The one and only.”

“I’m glad you’re okay!  Did everything go okay with that thingy downtown?  I wanted to call you, but I don’t have your number.  What happened?”

Roman grinned.  “Another big bad thought he could take me and was dreadfully wrong.”

“Aw, I’m so proud of you!”  Roman preened at Patton’s praise.  “What are you doing with Virgil though?”

“Currently, clothes shopping.”

For a long beat of silence, Patton weighed the pros and cons to his mental health associated with asking the myriad of questions suddenly cropping up.

Thankfully, Roman saved him from that particular conflict.  “Hold up, padre, I’m putting you on speaker.” Roman held the phone to where both he and Virgil could hear.  “Okay, repeat that first statement?”

“I kissed Logan!”  Patton exclaimed, right back to his original level of enthusiasm.

“And I missed it?!”  Virgil cried, dismayed.  “I have been waiting for that moment for years, and I freaking missed it.  Unbelievable.”

“I would like to proclaim that I totally called you two were going to get together!”  Roman announced dramatically, fanning a hand over his chest.

“Congratulations.”  Virgil slow clapped.  “You have the most basic of observation skills.”

“It was really sweet though!”  Patton chimed in. “He gave this big ol’ speech about how much I mean to him, and he told me he loves me.”  He giggled as Roman pointed to the changing room and mouthed something about a new outfit. “I was really nervous,”  Patton continued, "but I just kissed him!”

“I’m really proud of you, Pat,”  Virgil told his friend, smiling.

“Thanks, kiddo.”  On the other side of the line, Patton hugged the phone to his face, beaming.

“What about this one, Loco Channel?”  Roman stepped back out from behind the curtain, smiling almost bashfully as he twirled, red tulle skirt flaring out around him and midriff peeking out from under a white crop top.

Virgil dragged his eyes up and down Roman’s frame.  “Patton,” He said eventually, licking his lips and standing up.  “I’m going to have to call you back.”

He was unsure if Roman could physically get hickies, but damn if he wasn’t going to try.

 

After a valiant yet futile attempt to mark Roman, almost getting caught making out in the dressing room, Virgil getting eyed by the cashier, Virgil zipping his hoodie all the way up to hide the marks on _his_ collarbones, and purchasing Roman a pair of jeans and a pink Disney t-shirt emblazoned with _A Dream is a Wish your Heart Makes_ , they finally escaped from the store.

They ran themselves ragged galavanting around the city, buying hot dogs and salted pretzels from local vendors, almost buying out an ice creamery with Virgil making Roman try the flavors blindly and identifying all of the ingredients (which he did with infuriating accuracy), and taking obnoxious selfies at Roman's behest.  They made a game of avoiding the ever roaming paparazzi; Roman insisted they they'd never recognize him if he was kissing an unknown man, and Virgil was only too happy to oblige. And always, always, a flurry of words fell from their lips, flirty comments mixed with nicknames mixed with sly insults matched by quip after quip.

Roman took Virgil to Pons Park to officially meet Maximus.  (“Hey, buddy. Last time I saw you, you were trying to trample me to death.”)  They rode to Roman’s clearing, emerald green and beautiful, where Virgil marveled over the old radio tower.  (“If I just make a few adjustments, any given invention could have a huge range! If I just hijacked some satellites and - ow! Did you just throw a pinecone at me!?” “No villain-ing on our date, raining on the Mayday Parade.”)  

Eventually they found themselves wandering through the park hand-in-hand.  They pet every single dog that they could find, Virgil hanging back and waiting until Roman's charm secured them permission.  Virgil should’ve felt anxious about holding hands with someone else in public, where _everyone could see them,_ but he wasn’t.  It was odd. Everything about today was odd.  Not bad, not dreadful, just odd.

Something about Roman made the overwhelmingly anxious part of his mind shut off.  Whether it was the familiarity between them or the ridiculous levels of confidence he exuded or just the smile he would dart at Virgil every so often - small, genuine, and impish with his eyes shining with mischief, as if the two of them were in on the world's best secret - Virgil couldn't help but relax around him.

So they laughed and snarked and pet dogs and wandered around, momentarily content, or at least, pretending they were well enough.

All the while, they studiously ignored the sun on its persistent march through the blue sky, blaring down constant reminders that this wasn't real, that none of this could last, that all they were doing was hurting themselves.

Over the course of his life, Virgil had wanted to flip off the sun for many varied reasons, but this time, he was sorely tempted to actually do it.

It was still early afternoon when Roman saw the theatre and stopped dead in his tracks.  Virgil, who had been holding his hand, was yanked backwards when the other man came to a sudden halt.

“Ow, Roman!”  He scowled, rubbing his arm.  It felt like he had just tried to jerk his arm out from under a twenty-ton concrete block.  “What was that?”

Roman's voice seemed very far away, as if he were more monologing than speaking.  “My abuela used to take me to a theatre on the second Saturday of every month. She was a performer back in Cuba.”  His gaze raked over towering marble pillars, an old-fashioned marque, and intricate brickwork with something deeper than hunger.  “It’s not this one, but for a second it looked just like it.”

Virgil looked between Roman and the magnificent theatre.  “Do you want to go in?”

“No, it’s fine,”  He responded automatically before the engineer’s words caught up to him.  “Wait…” He turned to Virgil, almost sheepish. “Really?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “No, I offered to go inside with you for the sheer pleasure of denying you a moment later.”

“Ha,”  Roman said dryly then hesitated for a moment.  “Sorry, I'm just not used to…” He took a deep breath, looking longingly at the ornate brickwork and Grecian columns.  “Yes,” He said firmly. “Yes, I really want to go inside.”

“Come on then.”  Virgil sauntered past him and slipped through the heavy frosted glass doors, as if it were just that easy.

Although… a glow of excitement settled over Roman.  Maybe today it was.

Cool air swaddled his skin as he walked through the doors, staring with round eyes at the lobby.  It was nowhere near as visually stunning as the exterior, but the air was permeated with the smell of sawdust from the prop shop, echoes of tap shoes against the marble floor rang out, posters from past shows hung on the wall in various states of fadedness - tattered to glossy spoke of a long history.  He drifted over to them, reverently running his fingers along the shining edges. Hamlet, Phantom of the Opera, Newsies, Macbeth, Cats, The Addams Family Musical, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Gaslight, The Glass Menagerie, Julius Caesar - all of his old friends were with him. He closed his eyes for just a moment and soaked in the feeling of just being here.

“Princey?”  Virgil stood at his side, eyeing him with equal parts concern and amusement.  “Do I need to let you and Othello have the room to yourselves?”

“What?”  Roman's eyes fluttered open, and he realized he still had his fingertips pressed gently against the posters.  He quickly snatched his hand away, but was then unsure what to do with it. Crossing his arms seemed too standoffish.  Clasping his hands together was just awkward. Putting it behind his neck to rub at the hot flush crawling up his nape just wasn't happening.  He let it fall to his side where he rediscovered with delight that his new jeans had pockets. Pockets! He loved pockets. “Sorry,” He coughed awkwardly, shoving his offending hand into his pocket.  “I'm good.”

Virgil looked at him for a long moment before nodding slowly.

Roman breezed past him, all bluster and armor.  “Let's see what else is in here!”

They entered the main theatre, an extravagant room with a giant stage and rows of plush red velvet seats.  Much to their surprise, there was a familiar face inside.

“Thomas!”  Roman cried in delight, raising a hand to greet his friend.

“‘Sup, Thomas?”  Virgil flashed a peace sign.

“Roman!”  Thomas, equally enthusiastic, called back.  “Virgil!” The shelter director was standing next to an unknown person with a bright orange beanie on their head.  “Oh my gosh, Joan,” He gushed to them. “Come on, I've got to introduce you all.”

“What are you guys doing here?”  Thomas and Joan wound their way through the red velvet seats, coming to stand in the theater’s entryway with the two newcomers.  He pulled Roman into a hug, and offered Virgil a fistbump.

Virgil tapped fists gratefully.  “We were just passing by, and Roman felt like stopping in.”

“Oh, right!”  Thomas smacked his hand against his forehead.  “Introductions, sorry. Joan, this is Roman - he's the guy that I told you about; the one that comes to the shelter every Thursday?”

“Yeah, I remember.”  Joan nodded, turning to Roman.  “The storyteller, right? Good to meet you.”

The storyteller.  Roman liked the sound of that.

“And this is Virgil,”  Thomas continued. “He’s the one that fixed the air conditioning in the building last summer.”

Joan swore, managing to make the expletive sound impressed.  “Nice, dude.” They smiled, revealing dimples. “I'm Joan, they/them.”

“And my best friend!”  Thomas exclaimed, pulling them into a hug.  They rolled their eyes, but couldn't quite keep the small smile Thomas inspired off of their face.

Virgil slunk back, a bit overwhelmed by the introductions.  

Thomas and Roman began to chat enthusiastically about the theatre, Roman learning that Thomas was in a local trope based here, and Virgil slunk back even further, hating socialization and stupid anxiety and his inability to introduce himself to new people.  He leaned against the dark oak paneling of the wall stared at the plush, red carpet underneath his scuffed combat boots, wondering if the ground would be so kind as to swallow him.

Chocolate brown eyes took the emo in for a long moment before Joan casually sauntered over to him.  “Talking to people sucks, doesn’t it?”

A startled laugh fell from Virgil’s lips.  “Yeah, it does.”

Joan summoned their phone, seemingly out of nowhere.  “Wanna see a picture of my dog?”

“Hell yeah.”

The two introverts sat on the thick carpet together, scrolling through Joan’s dog album, mutual silence only broken by the occasional cooing.  Meanwhile, their extroverts laughed boisterously about whatever Shakespeare joke Roman had cracked that Virgil did not understand.

“Hey, you know…”  Thomas suddenly turned to Roman, lit up with excitement.  “We’re actually holding walk-in auditions for Richard the Third today.  You think you might want to try out?”

Habit moved Roman to decline, but right as he prepared to speak, he and Virgil caught each other's eyes.   _No tomorrow._

“Okay,”  He said, voice remarkably calm considering how his insides were suddenly trembling. “Sounds good.”

 

Patton danced around the kitchen of Bake My Day with a smile on his face.  He had _kissed_ Logan.   _He_ had kissed Logan!  He was baking lemon cheesecake tarts, it was almost time for the kiddos to come in after school, and he had kissed _Logan._ Nothing could possibly be better.

His loafer-clad feet skimmed lightly over the linoleum floors as he deftly balanced mixing bowls with baking trays.  The news was flipped on in the other room, and he glanced at it idly as he darted out to restock the display case’s bear claws.  They were running yet another story about that Savior.

A woman with a long, rope-like braid was sitting in a corner booth with two people who must've been her parents. “Anong gusto mong kainin?”  She asked the man. He didn’t respond, but she only smiled sadly and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “Don't worry ‘bout it,” She drawled before ordering one lemon-filled and two glazed donuts. Patton passed them to her with a smile.

He bustled back into the kitchen as the bell above the door rang.  He lit up, a smile sitting sunnily upon his face. The murmur of voices flowed in through the doors; the kiddos must've finally arrived.  He quickly threw a handful of strawberries into the cupcake batter, and his smile widened even further as he heard a familiar monotone rumble slide in from outside.  “Virgil!” He greeted cheerfully as he swung the door open. “Hiya, kiddo? How are you? I haven't seen you since-”

Patton cut himself off, frowning.  Virgil wasn't there. His brow furrowed.  He hadn't been imaging things, he had heard Virgil!  He had been reciting the words to that song he loved so much, the one that went-

“I'm the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned.”

Patton's gaze slowly drifted up to the TV, where a bunch of news people were analyzing some footage.  Of The Savior.

Oh.

“Hey, Kiddos?”  He addressed the group of children clustering eagerly around the counter.  “Can you all do me an itty-bitty favor and cover your ears real quick?”

They grinned back and clamped their chubby hands over their ears with an earnestness only children could ever offer.

Patton smiled at them and mouthed ‘thank you’ before returning his attention to the television.  “Son of a bi-”

 

Blinding lights shone upon the stage, but Roman merely basked in their heat.  The wooden stage was firm and steady beneath his feet, and the adrenaline thrumming through his blood awoke every cell in his body.

He was about to audition for a play.  He was actually about to do it.

A woman in the audience Thomas had introduced as Calypso - casting director and director director - sat with a clipboard balanced on her knee, eyeing him cooly, although not unkindly.

His emo nightmare - _Virgil_ , his heart sang the name.   _Virgil, Virgil, Virgil_ \- was standing in the wing, stage left.  He was smiling ever so slightly and giving an encouraging nod as Roman tilted his head towards him.   _‘You got this,’_  He mouthed.

Roman should’ve been nervous.  He should have been a shaking, stuttering mess.  He should have wanted to escape from the stage and run into Missy’s arms and never return.

But he wasn’t.  And he didn’t.

Instead, he felt alive.  He felt the excitement and joy he had felt all of those years ago, a child standing on top of the radio tower in Pons Park and looking down at the world at his feet.  He felt the thrill he had missed ever since then, rising in his chest, filling a hollow place. He had long had this monologue memorized - the words were ready to burst from his lips.

The edge of Roman's mouth quirked up.  He got this.

With a deep breath, he turned back towards the audience.  “In the days of Richard II,” He began his introduction. He was auditioning for George, Duke of Clarence. Emotional depth was vital.  “Kings were believed to be anointed by God. They were seen as divine beings, holy and grand demigods, and infallible heroes. This is Richard II’s most famous speech, and for good reason.  In a time when he was expected to be a flawless, perfect icon, this was a near-treasonous meditation on the fact that kings - or any who wear the Hollow Crown - are real people.”

Calypso nodded approvingly, scribbling something down.  “Whenever you're ready.”

Roman closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was suddenly something entirely new. “For God's sake,”  He sighed, deeply tired. “Let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings;” His voice took on a bitter edge.  “How some have been deposed; some slain in war, some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;” He clenched a fist over the names stamped into his heart.  “Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd,” He spat, starting to stroll around the stage, a tiger prowling around inside a too-small cage.  “For within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court and there the antic sits-”

His lips curled into a scowl. _“Scoffing_ his state and grinning at his pomp.  Allowing him a breath, a little scene-”  His entire body shook under the strain of countless eyes, watching him, judging him, day in and day out, leaving him no choice but to obsess over appearances until he was naught but a hollow crown.

_Appearances are everything._

_Smile, My Love.  The world is watching._

“To monarchize!  Be fear'd and kill with looks, infusing him with self and vain conceit,” He glowered with rage, howling to the rafters the injustice of it all, the impossibility of perfection.  “As if this flesh which walls about our life were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus comes at the last and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and _farewell king!”_  He snarled, roughly jerking his arm, sweeping away kings and kingdoms with a single gesture.

“Cover your heads!”  He cried. “And mock not flesh and blood with solemn reverence.”  His voice softened, anger washed away by a desperate plea. “Throw away respect, tradition, form and ceremonious duty!  For you have but mistook me all this while.”

His eyes shone with tears, threatening to fall at any moment.   _Why can't you see me?_  He begged of his audience.  “I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, need friends!”  He moved with more vigor, and his voice mounted in intensity, speaking faster, more passionately before his crescendo came to a crashing halt.

“Subjected thus...”  His shoulders stooped under the the weight of the world- a not god, a not hero, not a Prince, not a king- Atlas, unable to shrug off his impossible burden.  His voice was so quiet, his audience had to lean in even further, dangerously close to falling off of their seats. In the wing, Virgil, mesmerized, took a few steps forward.  

Roman's voice cracked and wavered with emotion, tempered by a bitter irony as the tears in his eyes finally spilled over.  “ _How_ can you say to me, I am a king?”

Silence blanked the theatre, lasting a bit too long, as Roman stood, awkwardly wiping his face.  “That's, uh…” He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “That's all I've got.”

Absolute quiet reigned for a moment longer before Joan, clearly and sounding vaguely stunned, spoke up.  “Well, shit. That was fucking awesome!”

As if their words were some predetermined signal, the audience stood and cheered.  There were only about five people sitting in the seats, but somehow, their applause felt better than the laudations of millions.

Off-stage, Virgil whooped, shoving a palm against his face to wipe away a stray tear away.  “You go, Princey!” He cheered, clapping.

Grinning, Roman took a bow.

“Did you see that?!”  He bounded off of the stage towards Virgil, caramel eyes fiery with exuberance.  “I did it!”

“You did it!”  Virgil agreed, warm with amusement.  “You were fantastic, Roman. I had no idea you- woah!”

Roman effortlessly picked up Virgil by his waist, spinning the two of them around in joy.  “I did it!” He exclaimed as Virgil, laughing, wrapped his arms around the actor’s neck. His feet flew from the ground as they twirled, foreheads pressed together, arms wrapped around each other, and breathless, jubilant laughter intertwining.

“You did it,”  Virgil confirmed as Roman slowed their spin, the engineer’s feet once again touching the ground.  Roman's hands didn't move from Virgil's waist, and Virgil's arms didn't unwind from around Roman's neck.  They were pressed together, flush from chest to knee.

“I did it,”  Roman whispered, grinning from ear to ear.  “I never thought I'd get to but I did.”

And, with Roman looking at him like that, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed and alight with joy and body trembling against his, how could Virgil do anything but kiss him?

It was entirely different than their other kisses.  It was neither the wild desperation of a confession nor the thrill of something scandalous; it was simply joy.  The press of two smiles against each other. A happy blanking of the mind as it filled only with elation and the feeling of the other man.  A congratulations. A thank you. A sweet, simple, uncomplicated kiss.

Roman broke away, pressing his forehead against Virgil’s.  “You have witchcraft in your lips, Katherine Minol-alluring.”

Virgil wondered vaguely if there were any other recorded instances of spontaneously developing a classic literature fetish, or if it was just the way Roman said the words - sweet, low, sultry, and entirely imbued with earnestness - that made his toes curl.  “Come on.” He disentangled himself. “Let's see what they have to say.”

Thomas was all wide grins and excitement when they emerged from backstage.  “That was fantastic!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms around Roman in a congratulatory hug.  “I think Calypso was impressed.”

“Really?”  The actor asked hopefully, squeezing Thomas back ever-so carefully.

Thomas pulled away, eyes glittering conspiratorially.  “She started crying,” He stage-whispered. “The part’s totally yours.”

“If he wants it.”  Thomas jumped and whirled around at the sudden voice before smiling sheepishly at Calypso.

She smirked back at him then redirected her attention to Roman.  “So? Do you want it?”

He did.  He wanted it more desperately, more deeply than he could ever remember wanting anything.  He wanted it so much that he could feel his bones ache with sheer longing. “I may have a scheduling conflict,”  He said instead. “But I'll contact you if something changes.”

Thomas deflated, Calypso tilted her head, and Joan, who had been showing Virgil more dog pictures this entire time, made a noise of disappointment.

Virgil just looked at him sadly with those impossible gray eyes.

Roman looked back helplessly.  He wanted to pretend that there was no tomorrow, he really did, but this?  To have his literal dream in his hands only to have to give it away? He didn't think he could bear it.  “Sorry.”

Calypso waved his concern away.  “Don't worry about it.”

Joan's phone suddenly exploded in a flurry of texts, and they grinned sheepishly.  “My boss, Kaimi, is off on another story.”

Thomas laughed.  “It's almost ten!  Does she ever stop?”

Joan rolled their eyes fondly.  “Unlikely.”

A shot of adrenaline hit Virgil's blood steam.  “It's almost ten?” He repeated.

“Yup,”  Thomas flashed his phone screen with the time at the engineer.

Virgil nodded slowly.  “Come on, pri-” He coughed awkwardly into his fist.  “Roman! Roman, we better head out.”

Roman nodded listlessly, biding Thomas and Calypso adieu as Virgil quickly swapped phones with Joan.  “Send me more pictures of your dog, coward,” He quipped, entering his number into the actor’s contact list.

“I’ll do you one better.”  Joan grinned, twirling their wrist; the phones suddenly reappeared in their owners’ respective hands.  “I’ll send you physical copies of memes at three in the morning.”

Virgil nodded approvingly.  “You better.”

Gloom hung about Roman like a shroud as they trudged away.  His steps were ponderous, plodding heavily to the earth, and he kept stealing glances of the theatre, trying to commit every inch to memory.

“So,”  Virgil said.  “Why exactly is Richard III such a good play?”

Roman physically lit up.  “It’s actually really incredible,”  He enthused, waving his arms to illustrate his emphatic points as they walked through the lobby.  “Throughout the play, intellectually speaking, you know that Richard is the villain, and that you should root against him, but by portraying him as the main character and letting him have so many witty moments and such intense internal dialogue - the monologues he delivers - you just can’t help but kinda root for him.”  He held the door open for Virgil then stepped out after him into the warm evening. “Plus, despite it all, the way he justifies all of his actions is pretty persuasive.”

“Sounds pretty cool,”  Virgil commented as they walked down the darkened street.  He took in the black sky with melancholy eyes. He hadn't wanted the sun to set, but now that it had, he never wanted it to rise again.  Earth could come grinding to a halt, could slowly freeze over, could cease its endless plummet through the void, and he'd be perfectly fine with it.  He vaguely wondered if he could create something to stop the sunrise, but decided he didn't have enough time.

There wasn't enough time left.

He darted a glance at Roman, bit his lip, and smirked.  Might as well use what they had. “One problem though.”

Roman watched with no little confusion as Virgil suddenly detoured, slipping into a shadowy alleyway.  He turned and looked at Roman with playfully wicked eyes. “I don’t think I like you fighting other villains.”

“Is that right?”  Roman’s grin sparkled as he followed him.

“Yup.”  Virgil sighed theatrically, placing his hands on Roman’s hips.  “This is a strictly monogamous nemesis-ship we have going on here.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”  Roman wound his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Virgil's neck.  “It’s not like you can stop every single other villain in the world from coming after me.”

“What if I do, Princey?”  Virgil’s gray eyes flashed dangerously, suddenly spinning them around until Roman’s back slammed into the rough concrete wall, leaving an indent.  “What if I stake my claim on you? What if I destroy every villain who dares try to take you on until I’m the only one you can even think of?” His fingers tightened on his hero’s hips, digging into the skin.

Roman’s heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribcage, trying to escape from his chest.  He licked his lips, and the villain’s eyes followed his movement with interest. “I…” His voice cracked; he had to try again.  “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

The villain was suddenly pinning him to the side of the building, arms caging in the hero.  A sudden thrill shot through Roman as he was forcibly reminded just how tall the purple-haired man was when he stopped slouching.  “Careful what you wish for, Princey.”

Roman hooked his leg around the engineer’s.  “I know what I said.”

Virgil hesitated for a millisecond, looking into Roman's eyes anxiously.  “Really?” He asked. _Is this okay?_

The hero just smirked.  “Do your worst, villain.”

So The Savior arched an eyebrow - sinfully cold, cruel, and calculating - leaned forward, and _devoured_ him.

The hero’s mind deserted him.  He became a creature entirely composed of sensations.  The rough scratch of brick against the backs of his hands from where the villain had pinned them with his own.  The warmth that radiated off of every inch of the other man. Mouths open, tongues touching. A fire blazing in his stomach.  The smell of adrenaline. An entire fireworks display going off behind his eyelids. He was bombarded on every side with input from his senses, but he wasn't overwhelmed.

Roman was _alive._

Lightning ran through his veins and sparks flew at every point of contact.  If he was able to form a coherent thought, it'd probably be along the lines of ‘ _I sing the body electric.’_  He was alive and every single synapse in his body was firing, every nerve and neuron dancing with the electricity flooding his system.

His knees threatened to give out beneath him, and he had to dig his fingers into the wall behind him for support.  Later, someone would be very confused by the ten holes bored into the brick. For now, however, the hero just focused on not falling to his knees.  (Although that position _would_ open up several new venues of activity.)

All to soon, Virgil pulled back, eyes dark and chest heaving.  Stupid need for oxygen.

The hero tried to surge forward, tried to follow him, but the villain just tisked, nudging a knee between The Prince’s legs.  “Oh, your highness.” He pressed the knee up, and the hero’s breath hitched. “What am I to do with you?”

Roman grinned rakishly.  “I have several suggestions.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Gladly.”

The villain crashed his lips in the the hero's again, a breathtakingly beautiful tragedy in three parts.  And that's really all that they were. A tragedy. A beautiful, fantastic, wonderful, perfect tragedy. They were the sound of screeching metal during a car crash, the moment of perfect clarity before impact when the two drivers locked eyes and realized that they were about to irrevocably change each other's lives.  They were the brilliant shine of broken glass scattered across the pavement. They were the way the smoke coming from the smashed engine curled delicately, tenderly before dissipating into the uncaring sky. They were the clean snap of a broken bone, the odd beauty of silvery scars.

They were tragedies in motion, and they both knew it.  They were suspended in that moment, the eye contact before the cars smashed into each other.  There was no happy ending, not for them anyway. They were a disaster, but in that - in the way Roman's hand was pressed into the small of Virgil’s back, the way Virgil wound his fingers through Roman's hair, the way the curves of their lips fit so precisely together, each knowing exactly how much to give and to take, the way that they pressed themselves so tightly together, as if that could keep their reality from slipping between them - they were something achingly beautiful.

They were complete and utter wrecks.

The villain grazed his lips against the shell of the hero’s ear.  “Do you know how pretty you are right now? Pupils blown and hair a mess and lips swollen.”  He leaned back, considering. When he spoke again, his voice was far too soft, too honest for their present situation.  “You're gorgeous.”

And, well, with Virgil looking at him like that, Roman didn't really think he could be held accountable for his actions.

Roman's hands slipped down to Virgil's thighs and suddenly the villain’s legs were wrapped around the hero's waist and his fingers were threaded through thick brown hair.

“Roman,”  Virgil breathed as the man in question started to press kiss after kiss to the long expanse of the villain's neck.  The hero ran his lips dangerously over Virgil's pulse, reveling in the roar of blood he could feel under the skin. Slowly, gently, Roman sank his teeth in; Virgil gasped, back arching and fingers tugging Roman's hair like a lifeline.  The hero apologized to the marred skin, peppering it with delicate kisses that sent shivers running down the villain's spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. “Roman,” He gasped again, drifting off into a sigh as the hero began to slow, lips skimming gently over smooth skin.

“Virgil,”  He murmured in turn before lifting his head to taste his name on the other man’s lips.

He had always been a bit of narcissist, after all.

 

Shortly thereafter, the words came, unbidden, as they walked, hands brushing but fingers not intertwined, back to Virgil’s apartment.  “I don’t think I really want that though.”

Virgil's head tilted towards him, and he emitted a soft sound of curiosity.  “What do you mean?”

“For you to stake a claim on me.”  Roman expected his voice to be shaking, but it was entirely steady.  With some satisfaction, he realized that he wasn't afraid to tell Virgil what he thought, how he really felt.  “Like you said: I'm my own person.”

A small smile graced the emo’s face.  “Good.” He hummed softly. “I'm glad you know that.”

“It took me a while,”  Roman confessed, taking Virgil's hand into his own.  “But I got there eventually.”

They were back at Virgil's apartment and had changed into pajamas (Virgil in an oversized T-shirt and boxers and Roman in an undersized T-shirt and boxers) when Roman finally mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been slowly dawning on him all day.

“Virgil?”  He waited for the engineer to join him in the bedroom to continue.  “Can I… um, so there's this thing that I'm wondering and my bad if I'm wrong or you don't want to tell me, but I just noticed some stuff and I was wondering if…”

“I’m trans, if that's what you mean,”  Virgil said flatly, hackles slowly creeping up.

“Oh thank god.”  Roman pressed a hand into his chest and huffed out a relieved breath, slouching forward.

Virgil narrowed his eyes at the actor.  “What?”

A hot flush crept over the bridge of Roman’s nose.  “That came out wrong.”

“Then explain yourself.”

Roman began to wave his hands erratically, conducting the discordant words falling from his lips.  “It's not like I was rooting for you to be trans or anything! I don't have a weird fetish! I'm fine with whatever - I'm pan! Or maybe bi? I don't know, I'm still figuring it out.”  The redness had spread out from Roman's nose and was now covering his entire face. “That's not important,” He rambled. “Sorry. It's just that… um… earlier? When we were kissing in the alleyway? And also in the dressing room? And on the rooftop? And kinda at the theatre, but that wasn't as heavy-”

“Princey!”  Virgil snapped.  “I get it, we've been making out all day.  Just breathe, and speak coherently.”

“Right.”  Roman took a deep breath and put a hand on the back of his neck.  “So when we were kissing, I just noticed that there wasn't really much… going on… down there.”  He awkwardly waved a hand in the general area of his crotch. “When I was definitely getting… excited.”

He spared a moment to mentally calculate the chances of him physically being able to hurl himself straight into the sun.  He'd probably survive, and all that heat would be nice. He had no idea if he could actually jump that high, but worth a shot, right?

“So I figured that you were either trans or not really-”  He coughed. “Into it. As in you didn't think I was attractive. Or. Something.”

“Ah, yes,”  Virgil deadpanned, amusement crinkling his eyes as his hostility was forgotten.  “I just can't stand that six-pack and flawless hair you have. Such a turn-off.”

“Hey!”  Roman waggled a finger in protest.  “I was legitimately concerned. It sucks when you do something with someone you're not into.”

The laughter dropped from Virgil's eyes instantly.  “Roman, does that…” He hesitated. “Does that ever happen to you?”

Gritting his jaw, Roman turned away, looking through the unshuttered window to the street below.  “Missy doesn't really take no for an answer,” He confided to the passers-by. They didn't respond, but Virgil did.

“Why do you even stay with her?”

Roman shrugged.  “Before I met you, I thought I loved her.”

Gray eyes creased in confusion.  “That's it?”

“No,”  Roman said but didn't elaborate.

“Roman, do you-”

“I don't want to talk about it,”  The hero said sharply. He winced, softening his voice.  “Sorry, that was uncalled for. I just… I don't want to talk about it.”

“Hey, no, Princey, that's fine.”  Virgil laid a hand on his arm. “You don't have to.”

Roman nodded briskly.  “Okay.” He sat down on the bed a tad stiffly, then softened at Virgil's worried glance.  “Come on, Professor James work-of-arty.” He patted the bed beside him and quirked a grin.  “Although I must warn you that I snore.”

Virgil let him have the out, snorting and flopping down beside him.  “And I must warn you that I will kick you.”

“Have fun with those broken toes.”

Virgil glared then amended his statement.  “And I must warn you that I will place my freezing cold toes on you.”

A hand flew theatrically to Roman's forehead.  “No!” He gasped, trying to keep his grin from ruining his aghast expression.  “You monster!”

Virgil wriggled his long, thin fingers in a motion reminiscent of witches on Halloween.  “Be afraid,” He intoned darkly. “Be very afraid.”

“I'm quaking,” Roman assured him before glancing warily at the bed.  “Left or right?”

“Left,”  Virgil responded instantly, throwing himself onto said side to stake his claim like the petty villain he was.

Roman just watched him, his heart feeling like it was glowing inside his chest.  He looked down, just in case he could detect a light shining through his borrowed shirt.  “Right,” He said honestly, laying down and bunching his pillow up under his head.

They slept on opposite sides of the bed naturally.  An odd thing to be bowled over by, to be sure, but a day ago, Roman would've never believed that he'd even be here, lying side-by-side with The Savior.  He had just saved the world for the millionth time. He was entitled to a bit of a mushy moment. He smiled softly and shut his eyes.

He could've sworn that he had only had them closed for a second, but when he opened them again, Virgil was standing at the window,

“The sun’s going to rise soon,”  Virgil said flatly, gazing out at the sky, which was edging dangerously away from black, and clenching his hand into a fist.  His shoulders were shaking.

“Virgil?”  Roman swung his legs out of bed and crept forward cautiously.  “You okay, Green Gay?”

The silence lasted long enough to let Roman know that a ‘yes’ would be a lie.  “That's fine,” The hero said eventually. “I don't think I'm okay either.”

The villain turned to him.  He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red; he had plucked the skin at the side of his thumb raw.  “Then don't go.”

Roman ran a hand through his hair as a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him.  “You don't understand.”

“No,”  Virgil agreed.  “I don't.” He slipped past Roman and sat down on the bed.  “You don't have to tell me, but I’d like to understand.” He looked so gentle with the yellowed light of street lamps shining across him, and Roman realized that he actually meant it.  Roman didn't have to tell him. He could simply refuse, and Virgil would be fine with it.

He sat down heavily next to him, and Virgil rested his head on the actor’s shoulder as they both gazed out of the window.  It was easier than looking at each other.

“My Mom didn't want me.”  Roman figured that was as good of a place to start as any.  “I don't really blame her; she was just sixteen, and we still have no idea who my dad was.”  He chuckled, low and dark. “He must've had a pretty fantastic Ability though, for me to turn out like I did.”

Wordlessly, Virgil nudged closer, and Roman wrapped an arm around him.

“So she left me with my grandparents, and I never saw her again.  Honestly though, it worked out for the better.” Roman's voice softened, warmed.  “They were fantastic. Abuelo worked two retail jobs, and Abuelita stayed at home with me, working as a seamstress.  She was so much fun! We sang and danced, and she told me about her life in Cuba before they came to America. She told me about how exhilarating it was to perform.  I was kind of a handful, especially when my Abilities began to manifest, but Abuelo could mimic other people's Abilities, so he usually managed to keep me out of trouble.”  He dimmed slightly. “We weren't rich, but we never missed a meal. For a while, we were happy.”

His voice grew bitter.  “It all ended for the stupidest reason: my grandpa’s appendix burst.  I was ten, and I saw the man who had always been the rock of my family admitted to the hospital.  He was fine; it was just a simple surgery, but when they checked for insurance, the doctors found out that he was undocumented.”

Dread settled over Virgil, crushing his chest.  “They didn't...”

“They did.”  Roman confirmed grimly.  He clenched his jaw, and Virgil laced their fingers together to comfort him; no comfort was needed, however.   Roman's anger and grief had long since been raged out - craters in concrete and brick walls of the hospital were a testimony to that.  All that was left was a broken bewilderment, the confusion of a child as to why anyone would tear his family apart at the seams. “He was admitted to the hospital Monday, pronounced healthy on Wednesday, the ICE agents showed up at our house Thursday, and two weeks later, he was gone.”

“Roman…”  Virgil, heartbroken, began, but he couldn't find the right words. There were no words.

“So Abuelita and I ran.”  Roman swallowed thickly. “We were afraid that they'd come for her next, and I'd be all alone.  We moved into a one-room apartment with rats and a leaky ceiling on the edge of the city, and we prayed that no one would find us.”  For first time since he started his tale, Roman hesitated, plucking at the fraying knee of his borrowed sweatpants.

“It's fine,”  Virgil said instantly.  “You don't have to-”

“-I want to though,”  Roman interrupted him.  “Let's just… let's lie down first.”

They curled up on their sides under the bedsheets, facing each other.

“Then my grandma started to get sick,”  Roman continued, expression hidden by shadows the ever-lightening window was starting to cast.  “She couldn't sew anymore; she couldn't keep working. She couldn't even dance anymore.” He paused for a moment, warmed.  “That was her Ability: dancing. She could hypnotize people with her dancing.” He smiled, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.  “I still remember one time she had stopped in Little Havana to listen to some street magicians play, and when she started to dance along to them, traffic came to a complete standstill.  No one could look away.”

“She sounds like she was amazing,”  Virgil said softly.

“They both were,”  Roman agreed. “But when he left, I was all she had left.  I had to take care of her. By the time I was eleven, I was a regular street rat.  I conned and did tricks and begged and did whatever jobs anyone would pay me for just so I could get a few bucks to cover rent.”  He paused and added bitterly. “But it was hardly ever enough. We missed meals, we couldn't afford her medicine, and when she started to forget things, I couldn't leave her alone to work.”  He curled in on himself, one hand clenching the bedsheets. “For a long time, we lived on the streets.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, and Virgil laid his hand over Roman's.  “How long?”

Roman closed his eyes painfully.  “From when I was twelve to seventeen.  Five years.” His eyes flared open. “And then Professor Phobos attacked downtown.”

Virgil's mind suddenly put the pieces together.  “Are you telling me that you had absolutely no training, and just decided to go after a villain for the heck of it?”

Roman grinned rakishly.  “I mean basically. I had gotten into fights before, but I had never lost.  I figured, why not? I had already rescued the Prince costume from the dumpster behind a local theatre, and it wasn't like I had any other plans.”

“You're unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably handsome, you mean.”

“Irrelevant and incorrect.”

“Anyway-”  Roman stuck his nose in the air, pretending to be offended.  “- once I took down Professor Phobos, it was pretty much smooth sailing from there.  The government registered me as an official Super, I had a faculty to train in, I never missed another meal, and Abuelita was taken care of until… all the way through hospice.”

Virgil squeezed his hand gently.

“After that, it was just a string of agents in suits who told me where to go and what to wear and who to fight.”  He shrugged, an ironic smile tempering the corners of his mouth. “It was fine. Not like I had any other plans.” His smile lost its bitterness.  “I loved it. And I still love it! Saving the world, taking down the bad guys, helping people, using my Abilities… nothing could be better.

“And then came one of my battles with Mistress Malice.”  Roman’s eyes and tone shifted. “When I saved Missy’s life.  My handler at the time had been badgering me to get a love interest to boost my ‘personality’, and, well, when Missy toppled from that building and I caught her, it seemed like a perfect opportunity.  She was pretty nice at first. A little vain to be sure; I always caught her looking at herself in the mirror, but no more than I do. She was… nice. She was a respite from official meeting after battle after press conference after commercial shooting after whatever.  She moved in with me and quit her job as a reporter. She listened to me and talked with me and was so incredibly beautiful that I thought I must be in love.”

His brow creased; his voice wavered.  “She gave me panic attacks, and I called it love.”

Virgil nudged closer in silent solidarity.

“She convinced someone - I have no idea how - that she could be my official government handler.  She started cutting off all the contacts I had outside of her. She told me who I could talk to, what I could wear, where I could go, all in the name of improving my image.  But she always kissed me and told me that she loved me and that she could never hurt me, I’m invincible afterall. Whenever I confronted her, she cried and said that I was scaring her.  And she never…” Roman’s breath hitched; salt water stained his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,”  Virgil said softly, kissing Roman’s forehead.  “It’s okay.”

“She never lets me wear makeup or skirts or anything that isn’t ‘masculine’.”  Roman took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself. “And the night of the gala I started to address everything, but she had faked a bruise-”  Roman’s words started to quicken, falling over each other and blurring together in their desperate attempt to be heard. “-and she’s right. I can’t leave because she really does control everything about me, and I couldn’t even pick out my own outfit earlierhow _pathetic_ isthatI-”

“Roman!”  Virgil interrupted him sharply, softening when Roman tensed.  “Roman,” He repeated softly. “You need to breathe. Anxiety attacks are no fun, let me tell you.”

Roman nodded shakily.  “I’m just… I’m so scared, Virgil.  If I leave her, I’ll just be that same scrawny Cuban kid who couldn’t even afford to sleep under a roof.  Who couldn’t feed his family.”

“You were just a kid, Roman.  You’re different now. No one can take being The Prince away from you.”

Roman shook his head.  “I don’t feel any different, not really.”

“You’re stronger than you think, Roman.”  Virgil attempted a smile. “And not just because of all the muscles either.”

Roman laughed, too-bright, too-fragile.  “Those do help though.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “Go to sleep, nerd.”

“You appear to be mistaking me with Logan.  I get the confusion, as we are both incredibly handsome, but he’s a dweeb and I am not.”

Virgil just snorted.  “I got you, okay?” He murmured lowly.  Roman didn’t understand why his voice was shaking until he noticed Virgil looking out the window again.

“Shh, shh, hey.”  Roman gently cupped Virgil’s face, scooting closer on the mattress until their breath intermingled.  He brushed his thumb tenderly under the emo’s eye, catching the tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks.  He turned Virgil’s head from the unshuttered window. “Don’t look, okay?” He touched a kiss to the other man’s forehead.  “Just don’t look.”

Virgil looked at him to see there were tears pooling in the actor’s eyes as well.  He took a deep, wavering breath. He wasn’t the one having to go home to a woman he didn’t love, after all.  “Talk about something else, then.”

“As you wish.”  Roman hummed slightly, and Virgil placed a hand on the actor’s chest, reveling in the way the rumble traveled down his arm and settled somewhere deep in his bones.  “I like your room,” He said eventually.

Despite himself, Virgil snorted.  “We already determined my apartment is a steaming dumpster fire.”

“Your words, not mine, Death Cab for Virgil.”

It took the engineer a minute to process that one.  He groaned. “That was awful.”

“Lies and slander!”  Roman gasped dramatically.  “It was almost as brilliant as your smile.”

Virgil threw a pillow at the actor, laughing.  “Stop!”

Roman caught it easily, clutching it to his chest as he theatrically gazed off into the distance.  “I fear I cannot. No puedo concretar la hora, ni el sitio, ni la mirada, ni las palabras que pusieron los cimientos.  Hace bastante tiempo. Estaba ya medio de antes de saber.”

“No idea what you’re saying,”  Virgil said, stifling a yawn. “But I like the way you say it.”

Roman grinned.  “Just saying that your eyes sparkle almost as much as the stars on your ceiling,”  He lied.

A noise of confusion pressed its way through Virgil’s lips.  “What’re ya talking about, Princey?” He slurred, words weighted by sleep.

Roman’s eyebrows pressed together.  “The glow-in-the-dark stars on your bedroom ceiling?  I really like them. I’ve actually always wanted some at my place.”

Virgil tilted his head upwards, and his wide eyes took in the stars, glowing bright and strong on the ceiling.  “But…” He spluttered. “They weren’t there! They haven’t shone in years.”

Roman arched an eyebrow.  “Well, did you ever open the shutters for them?”

The engineer winced guilty.  “No.”

“Well, there you go,”  Roman chuckled softly, reaching out to tuck a lock of Virgil’s purple hair behind his ear.  “The stars were always there.” He smiled. “All you had to do was let in a little light.”

 

Virgil fell asleep shortly after that.  He didn’t mean to, but he was still exhausted from fighting Remy and staying awake for… shoot, was it three days now?

All he knew was that one moment he was resting against Roman’s chest, arms around each other, voices heavy with sleep, talking over anything and everything they could think of, and the next he opened his eyes to an empty bed.

He had known it was coming, but it still hurt.  The thorns in his chest still wrapped around his heart and squeezed until it was nothing but a shredded mess.  He was splayed out on his stomach, arms and legs at right angles to his body; his left hand was still stretched out, reaching for someone no longer there.

He shifted forward, grabbing Roman’s discarded pillow; he pressed it to his stomach, curling around it.  He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't.

He wasn't.

He was.

His cheeks grew wet with water as he desperately tried to muffle his sobs, but his entire body shook with the effort.

“Woah, Robert Frowney Junior! What's with all that?”

Virgil froze.  Slowly, he lifted his salt-stained face to see Roman.

The actor smiled slightly, concern tilting his head.  “I was only gone for five minutes.” His eyes darted to the side and narrowed.  “Also, I think your toaster has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Roman!”  Virgil scrambled out of bed, not even caring that he was still in boxers and without a binder.  “You're here.” He reached out a hand to the other man, but hesitated, almost afraid the vision before him would reveal itself to be just that.

Roman took his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.  “I'm here,” He reassured him then repeated it to himself, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “I'm here.”

“I thought you were…”  Virgil could barely speak.  “I thought you were going home.”

Roman shook his head slowly.  “That was never my home.” He grinned, half-sheepish.  “But I thought I was too. It's just that when I got up this morning, it hit me.  How much I didn't want to go. How much I wanted to stay here.” He linked their fingers.  “With you.” He took a deep breath. “I'm going to break things off with Missy.” He said the words deliberately, carefully, stamping his vow into the air.

“What?”  Hope and terror warred for their place in Virgil's throat.  “Roman, what about your reputation? What about everything you said last night?”

“Talking it through with you made me realize that my past is just that - the past.  I'm The Prince! I was a hero before Missy and I can be one after her. I don't need her, and, honestly, we just bring or the worst in each other.”  His eyes shone. “I'm going to break up with her.”

“Roman, this…”  Virgil shook his head, trying to cling on to his common sense as the river of the other man's excitement threatened to sweep him away.  “This doesn't change anything! Where does this leave us? You're a hero, and I'm still a villain. What are we supposed to do?”

The hero ran a hand through his hair.  “I have no idea!” He exclaimed, eyes shining with the prospect, the sheer endless possibility before them.  “Isn't that fantastic?”

Horrifyingly, Roman's manic hope started to spread to Virgil, festering in his stomach until he started to believe in this.  To believe in this crazy, impossible, inane idea that they could work, that this could be real.

“C’mon, Virge,”  Roman pleaded softly, taking a small step closer.  “Don't we deserve our happy ending?”

“This is insane!”  Virgil cried. “It's stupid and we have no plan and it's incredibly risky and ridiculous and it'll never work!”

“So you're in?”

“I thought that was obvious.”  Virgil laughed, half-hysterically, and kissed him.

“I think,”  He murmured, breaking away.  “That I can deal with a happy ending.”  Moon-gray eyes softened. “So, you're staying?”

“I'm staying.”  Roman grinned, clutching Virgil's hand to his chest for a moment.  “But not at this very moment. If I'm going to break things off with Missy, I've got to do it while I'm still insane enough to think it'll work.”

“Then get out of here!”  Virgil cried, pushing against his chest.  “Go, shoo, stop contaminating my apartment with your perfect hair.”

Roman laughed, deep and full.  His eyes sparkled with sheer joy as he walked to the door.  “I'll be right back, okay?”

Virgil smiled.  “Okay.”

 

Anxiety warred with elation warred with dread the entire walk to the penthouse until Roman was quite sure he would rip off his skin just to be rid of it.

He mentally drilled himself, planning for contingency after contingency.  If Missy begged and pleaded for him to stay, he'd gently explain that they weren't good for each other.  If she got angry and yelled, he'd walk away without a word. If she sobbed and wailed that she knew he had never loved her, he’d tell her that he was sorry she was hurt, but this was his choice.  If she got cold and quiet and told him that there was no way anyone could ever love him like she did, he'd do as he was doing now and run his fingers over the stim toy Virgil made for him. If she threatened him with another fake bruise, he'd tell her that a word-against-word battle would damage her reputation just as much as his.

If all else failed, he could just leave.  He thought he had prepared for everything.

What he did not plan on, however, was for the door to be kicked down.  Splinters were scattered across the floor, jagged white fangs, still desperately trying to ward off invaders.  He gingerly picked his way through the carnage, only to be faced with bedlam.

The penthouse had been torn apart.  The furniture had been sliced open, and tufts of stuffing blanketed the floor like snow.  The television had been ripped from its stand on the wall and was split in half. The ceiling lights had been shattered, and glass littered the wood floor.  Everything had been destroyed, upended, or torn.

In a daze, Roman drifted into the bedroom.  Everything was so, so quiet. All even he could hear was the crunch of glass under his feet and his own ragged breathing.  “Missy?” He called out. “Missy, it's me! Are you here?”

It was too quiet.  There was no sound of another heartbeat, no stifled breathing of a woman in hiding.  He didn't smell anyone nearby either.

The mirror of Missy’s vanity had an impact point caked with blood.  He could see his own reflection, multiplied a thousandfold, staring back at him with wide, horrified eyes.  The names above his heart burned. He bit back nausea and stumbled away, back into the living room. He had promised to protect her.  He had _promised._

He turned around and saw it.  There, in the middle of the ransacked apartment, lay a piece of notebook paper, pristinely folded and placed deliberately at the epicenter of the chaos.  With shaking hands, Roman picked it up.

 _Find her if you can,_ was scribbled in an unfamiliar scrawl.  Then, at the bottom, as if an afterthought.   _And ask The Savior what he did to Arbor Price._

 

Virgil sprawled on his bed, deliriously happy.  There were no thorns in sight as he gazed at the sleeping stars on his ceiling.  He relished the gentle tickle of rose petals against his ribcage, sending waves of pure ecstasy through him.  He felt like he was glowing. Roman was going to stay. Somehow, someway, they'd figure it out.

He turned his head, smiling at the unshuttered window.  Roman was going to stay. With a start, he realized that for the first time in a long time, he felt content.

Not to say that he wasn't terrified.  They couldn't change who they were, and Virgil knew that either of them surrendering their alternate egos was impossible.  But, nonetheless, Virgil was starting to think that _they_ were possible.  That maybe, just maybe, this could work.

He let his mind wander over the future ahead of them.  Mornings waking up to see Roman's head on the pillow next to his.  Days of dazzling the hero with his inventions. Afternoons spent with Logan and Patton; he and the baker rolling their eyes as their significant others traded barbs.  Nights spent standing and applauding as Roman took his bows onstage. Somehow, someway, balancing the eternal struggle between good and evil with how they felt.

It was possible.  Unlikely, implausible, improbable, but possible.

Virgil could deal with possible.

Then, his burner phone started to buzz.

Startled, he fell off of the bed with a thump.  He swore and scrambled into the main room, digging through his Savior jacket.  He found the phone and flipped it open with shaking hands. “Hello?”

“Virgil,”  The voice greeted, static crackling down the line.  “Salutations. I do apologize for not reaching out earlier, but there was an… incident.  I'm afraid I was indisposed for some time.”

“It's fine.”  Virgil's voice betrayed none of the panic ricocheting through his mind.  How could he have forgotten about U. N. Owen? There was no way his partner in crime would be okay with anything that had just occurred in the past twenty-four hours.  Virgil clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to stop shaking. If his sponsor didn't know now, there was no point in giving any information away. “What do you need?”

“To speak with you.”  A long pause, as if for fortification.  “Face-to-face.”

All of the blood drained from Virgil's face.  “What?”

“It’s the best way to proceed, Virgil.”  Only a few blocks away, the person on the other end of the line swallowed deeply and fought off apprehension.  “We see each other every day as is.”

The person who always knew where Virgil was and what he was working on.

The person who had a key to Virgil’s apartment.

The person who wrote in swirling, precise cursive.

The person who had bad phone service, making the line always hiss and crackle with static.

The person who had had a burner phone on the night of the gala.

The person who was an Agatha Christie fan and would definitely come up with a pseudonym like U. N. Owen.

The person who could get into the lab anytime he wanted; he was the owner of the building after all.

The person whose mother was killed by a hate group.

The person whose love’s bakery had been attacked.

The person who had more motivation to hate society than almost anyone else.

“After all,”  Logan Abbott smiled, but there was no joy in it.  Just the movement of muscles stretching skin. “It’s only logical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternate title for this chapter is "Local Author Provides 15K of fanservice then ruins it all at the very last second."
> 
> Thanks for reading so I can ruin your day! Love you all <3
> 
> hold up through, i need to evil cackle because I am absolutely certain your facial expression is hilarious right now. MUAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAH
> 
> Half of this was typed on my phone so I am certain there's a typo in here somewhere. roast me when you find it!


	17. Local Astronomer has a Library Kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for:  
> \- Fantasy Violence (skip "Hero and henchmen stared each other down..." through "Before too long, Roman...")  
> \- Mentions of blood thoughout  
> \- Swearing  
> \- Emotionally manipulative relationship  
> \- Character in burning building (skip "He was running though the open door..." through "Everything after that..."
> 
> Please tell me if I missed anything!

Julia Abbott had always known that she wanted a child.  Even when she herself was little, she ignored the mobs of children clustered on the playground, showing off their Abilities, to carefully play with the baby dolls.

Later, she had been rather put-out when she found out what exactly the process of having a child entailed.  She had scowled at her parents and proclaimed that she wasn’t interested in any of that. They had just laughed and told her that she’d change her mind.

She never did.

She did, however, often attend Pride decked out in her asexual and aromantic gear.

Thus, no one was quite surprised when she marched into the nearest fertility clinic on the day of her eighteenth birthday, slapped a clean bill of health, a carefully marked calendar, and seven hundred dollars down on the counter, then asked to see a doctor about an artificial insemination, today if possible.

The secretary, an elderly woman with a faded, wrinkled face and a head of _literally_ fiery red hair, looked at her, looked down at the bill of health with her age and her Unabled status, and looked back up.  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to consider this for a few weeks. There are all sorts of factors that go into this sort of-”

Julia slapped down another three hundred dollars.

The secretary scooped them up and into her pocket without blinking.  She smiled, saccharine and artificial. “Well, we’ll be happy to get you in right away!  I trust that you’ll want a donor with an excellent Ability; we have such a fantastic variety to choose from-”

Julia raised a hand, cutting her off.  “Does it look like I care about that?”

The secretary awkwardly gave her a once-over again, taking in her loose, natural afro, the determined set to her jaw, the slightly manic gleam of excitement in her eyes.

“No?”  She hazarded.

Julia rolled her eyes.  “Just get me back there.”  She paused for a moment before awkwardly tacking on a “please.”

She walked out with a baby in her stomach and an idea for an article about corruption in healthcare bubbling in her mind.

Everyone said that Julia was ruining her life.  Everyone said that she was too young, that she had to get through school first, that she wasn’t prepared.

The joke was on them.  Logan was the best thing that had ever happened to her.  She was young and in school, yes, but she had been preparing for motherhood her whole life.  She wasn’t going to let a little technicality like getting a professional degree get in her way.

At twenty-seven years old, Julia Abbott had three priorities: Logan, The Truth, and being the youngest professor to ever get tenure.

Logan had gotten his ambition from somewhere, after all.

At nine years old, Logan Abbott had three priorities: building a telescope, his mom, and keeping said mom out of trouble.

It wasn’t that she was irresponsible so much as she was reckless.  She ran towards confrontations rather than away, always strived to be the first to break a story, even if she risked breaking her _neck_ in the process.  She dug deeper into events than anyone else would’ve thought to, demanding to know the _why_ of a story, not only the _who, what, where, and when._

Even as a child, Logan could see that her obsession, bordering on worship, of absolute Truth (the capital T was, apparently, vital) was dangerous.  She already attracted enough attention being the only Unabled professor at Cerebrum University, she had to intentionally dig up dirt on politicians, gang members, and business tycoons as well?

She was a woman with far more enemies than friends.

At thirty-one years old, Julia Abbott had had innumerable threats on her life, a handful of attempts, and one attack that resulted in her being hospitalized for six days.

The man who assaulted her paid a fine of five-thousand dollars, did a few hours of community service, and avoided any blights on his permanent record.  Jail time wasn’t even considered.

At thirteen years old, Logan Abbott was more than old enough to understand the way things were for people like them.  “You’ve got to stop,” He begged her, clutching her hand - cold and clammy with an IV stuck in the back of it. “Please, Mom, please stop.”

Bruises bloomed against her ashen skin as she just smiled at him, too weak to lift her head from her hospital bed.  “Ask me anything else, honey. Anything at all, and it’s yours.”

He shook his head, heat prickling at the corners of his eyes.  “I just want you to be safe.”

She was still for a long moment before she gestured him forward and kissed his forehead.  “Okay, Logan. I’ll be safe. I promise.”

She was.  She loved Logan more than anything else in the world; she’d do anything for him.  She sat quietly, fingers itching for a notepad and a pen when she saw something unusual.  She dug her heels in and taught her classes with more enthusiasm than ever. She tore herself up inside, but she resisted the urge to rush headlong into danger.

She kept being a mother, first and foremost.  She was in the first row of all of Logan’s dance recitals, clapping more enthusiastically than any other attendee.  She gushed over his science fair projects, fussing over his outfits and what he was going to say to the judges. She threw popcorn at him when he got answers before her while watching Jeopardy!, laughing when he caught it in his mouth.  She sat up all night with him after he broke up with his first boyfriend. She scolded him furiously when he stumbled into the house at three in the morning, reeking of other men’s cologne and cheep liquor. She pushed a hangover cure and a list of chores at him the next morning.  She loved him with all of her heart, and he loved her in return.

Then, at eighteen years old, Logan Abbott went off to college, and, at thirty-six years old, Julia Abbott found herself rushing headlong into danger again.

She talked with him over the phone, asking if he had made any new friends, and if he was doing okay with his classes.  He asked her if she was staying safe, and she lied. He asked what she was working on, and she lied. He asked her if she had been eating right, taking care of herself, and she lied.

“Don’t worry about me, honey,”  She said breezily, shoving a hand through her limp, filthy hair.  Her bloodshot eyes darted over files, newspaper clippings, notes. “Mama’s doing just fine.”

 

Logan.

It was _Logan._

U.N. Owen, the person who had made him become a villain in the first place, who had told him he and Roman weren’t meant to be together, the person who had told him to create the Abilities Eraser was _Logan._

Virgil stood stock still, phone still pressed to his ear, even though the line had long gone dead.

“Alright,”  He had said.  “How will I recognize you?”

On the other end of the line, Logan had sighed.  “It won’t be hard, Virgil. Just look for your best friend at the New Psyche public library in twenty minutes.”

Virgil’s blood had ran cold.  He had licked his lips a few times before he could speak.  The name clawed desperately at the fleshy sides of his mouth, trying desperately not to fall from his lips; he didn’t want to make this real.  “Logan?”

U.N. Owen had smiled sadly.  “Yes, Virgil. I’ll see you soon.”

The line had clicked dead.

Virgil still hadn’t moved from his position.  The dial-tone blared in his ear, but he barely heard it.  His mind was somewhere far away, trying to process this.

Logan.

Logan?

Virgil felt light-headed.  His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto the garish couch.  His burner phone clattered to the floor, but he didn’t bother picking it up.  Even from a distance, he could hear the dial-tone, the shrill, monotone buzzing of a lost connection, of something broken, of static where there should’ve been communication.

He felt a stab of pain and looked down to see that he had finally picked the skin at the edge of his thumbnail bloody.  He shoved the offending digit underneath his arm and stared at the ceiling.

He could no longer tell if the single, piercing note was coming from inside or outside of his head.  His ears were ringing, and his head was almost ready to float from his shoulders like an errant balloon.

His thumb pulsed with pain.

Logan.

Suddenly, rage overcame all of Virgil’s other emotions, sweeping them away in a tidal wave.  How _dare_ he.  How _dare_ Logan, the man he thought was his best friend, lie to him like this?  Manipulate him?

Red flashed before his eyes.  Snarling, he stormed into his bedroom and threw on the nearest bunch of semi-clean clothes he had.  He swept out of his apartment, slamming the door so hard that plaster shook loose from the ceiling, snowing down in delicate white puffs.

Solace could not even be found in the familiar _one-two_ scuff of his combat boots against the pavement.  Everything was muffled, filtered through the cloud of wrath that raged like a storm around him.  His boots hit the ground so hard passers-by were concerned that the concrete would crack. _ONE-TWO-ONE-TWO-ONE._

Logan.

The crowded street parted before him, parents shuffling children so there was a shield between the child and the deranged man with fire flashing in his eyes and lips sharpened into a snarl.  Normally, Virgil would've been uncomfortable with such attention, but at this moment, he hardly noticed.

He only managed to marginally pull himself together for a moment while standing on the bleached concrete steps to the New Psyche Public Library.  He glowered at the marble lions lounging on two outcroppings of stone with their massive paws clutching carved tomes, and realized that he needed backup.  He slipped his hand into his pocket and made a call.

Logan was sitting at a round oaken table.  Apart from the rest of the patrons, tucked into the small enclave between two massive bookshelves, near a large floor-to-ceiling window - it was strategically placed.

With a bitter twist, Virgil realized that Logan was much better at strategic planning than he had previously thought.

Virgil sat down heavily in the chair across from Logan.  For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Virgil catalogued the details of Logan’s face as if he had never seen it before.  Was deception hiding in his dark brown eyes? Did he detect haughtiness in the wide slope of his nose? And why did he look like he had gone a few rounds with a highly-caffeinated kangaroo and lost all of them?

“Well,”  Virgil said eventually.  “I’d be tempted to deck you for this, but it looks like someone beat me to the chase.”

Logan gingerly prodded at the edge of his swollen eye.  “Police.”

Virgil couldn’t help a wince of sympathy although he wasn’t exactly shocked.  He, like almost every Unabled person, had more than his fair share of terrifying encounters with the cops.  He then, however, remembered that Logan was actually his mysterious partner-in-crime, and his sympathy quickly dried up.  “You said you wanted to talk?”

Logan nodded.  “I have recently been plagued with guilt for deceiving you for such a prolonged period of time.  Not to mention, I fear I have been… short-short sighted in certain regards.”

“Really? You think?”  He snarled at Logan, red-hot anger suddenly flaring back up.  “You fucking lied to me, Logan. I thought I could trust you; both versions of you, and then I find out that it’s my _best friend_ just playing me?”

“Virgil, please.”  Logan held up a placating hand.  “Can we not discuss this like gentlemen?”

“Nope,”  Virgil’s lips quirked in a viciously triumphant smirk.  His stone gray, stone cold eyes darted somewhere over the astronomer's shoulder. “I already brought in the big guns.”

A cheerful voice split the quiet of the library, sending cold shivers down Logan’s spine.

 _‘You monster,’_  He mouthed to Virgil, who only bared his teeth in return.

Logan slowly turned around to see Patton, blue eyes flashing dangerously, had spoken.

“Hiya, kiddos.”

 

Missy was gone.

Missy was _gone._

Roman drifted like a man sleep-walking over to the cracked vanity mirror.  Gingerly, he touched his fingertips to the powdery rust-colored substance caking the glass.  It flaked off until he had blood on his hands. (Then again, he already did.)

He brought it up to his nose and sniffed.  His chest seized with fear. The smell of expensive perfumes and organic foods and makeup - it was Missy’s.  He wiped his hand on his new jeans, realizing too late that the token of his perfect day was now soiled.

Oh, well.  He didn’t have time to worry about that.

The blood wasn’t fresh.  By his best estimation, it was about thirty-six hours old.  They must’ve taken her the morning after the gala, when he was at Bake My Day with Logan and Patton.

He didn’t have a lot of time.

He stripped himself of his new clothes, throwing on one of his many Prince uniforms.  The scent trail would already be partially faded.

He forced his hands to stop trembling at his sides, pushed away the guilt that was eating him alive.  He didn’t have time for self-pity. He had a mission.

The last time he had run from this apartment, it had been to get away from Missy.  Now, he’d hopefully be running towards her.

He spared a moment to scowl at whatever cruel and merciless being was controlling his fate.

He raced out of the penthouse, moving at approximately a half of a mile per second.  He scoured buildings room by room, skyscrapers by each floor, the city skyline by the tallest perch available, trying fruitlessly to find her.  He ran blind for a while, trying to track her by scent, but he quickly cut that particular endeavor off when it resulted in him knocking over a statue of George Washington.  He hoped that no one would notice the Founding Father’s eagle wings were a bit askew.

He ran and he ran until he had scoured almost every inch of New Psyche.

With every passing moment, the fear coiling around his neck tightened its grasp.  His track record when it came to rescues wasn’t exactly impeccable. After all, he almost hadn’t saved her the first time.

When Mistress Malice had thrown him into that skyscraper, the dust of pulverized stone had fallen into his eyes, clouding his vision and distracting him with the dry scrape of it against the inside of his lungs.  He could be remembering it differently in hindsight, but in that moment, he could’ve sworn that there was a yellow streak falling from the sky before the one that revealed itself to be Missy.

With a violent yank, he tore his mind from memories.  There was no use in dwelling on almost-failures of the past when there was a very real jeopardy in the present.  And no matter how much he would have prefered it, this one wasn’t hosted by Alex Trebek.

He forced himself to finally take a break in an alleyway - dingy but secluded.  He wiped the sweat from his brow and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.  He needed a better strategy for this. What did he know?

Missy had been taken the day after the gala.

Whoever it was apparently knew quite a bit about his life and Virgil’s.

Missy had been injured by her kidnapper.

Whoever it was had  managed to get inside of his both secret and highly fortified apartment.

Every bit of evidence led to a rather unfavorable conclusion: it had to be one of his old enemies.

Now, if he was a supervillain who had just kidnapped the infamous Missy Darnelle, where would he take her?

The Prince found himself in the warehouse district on the edge of the city.

He blurred around each, searching for someone he didn’t even know was here, and hoping to find evidence of her that might not even exist.

Then, he smelled expensive perfumes and organic foods and makeup.  He looked down at the ground to see a puddle of blood outside of the rickety warehouse before him.

Despite the gravity of the situation, he almost groaned.  Of course Missy was being held in a run-down warehouse. Villains never bothered to come up with anything new.  Just once, would it kill them to have a secret base in a giant mansion behind a waterfall?

But Missy was somewhere inside.  For a brief, fanciful moment, he thought of not even rescuing her, of avoiding this incredibly obvious trap and going back to Virgil, but he pushed the intrusive impulse away.  Personal feelings aside, an innocent bystander was trapped in the clutches of some heinous villain.

Roman clenched his jaw, muscles working as he geared himself up for a fight.

 

At twenty years old, Logan Abbott came home for the summer to see one Ms. Kaimi Alvi, nineteen years old, sitting in his kitchen.  “You must be Logan!” She exclaimed, rushing over to greet him, all wide-eyes and sparkling smile. “I’m Kaimi.” She pumped his hand enthusiastically. “Professor Abbott has told me so much about you.”  She rummaged through _his_ refrigerator, at _his_ house, with the permission of _his_ mother, and pulled out a bottle of water.  “Do you want something to drink?”

Logan instantly decided that he hated her.

Julia Abbott, thirty-seven years old, padded into the kitchen and instantly lit up at the sight of her son.  “Logan!” She cried. A lighthouse would be put to shame by the sheer glow of joy she gave off. “Honey, you're home!”  She pulled him into a hug, then immediately pulled back and began to fuss over him. “I thought you were supposed to be home tomorrow.  Did you make the drive okay? You didn't drive all night, did you? Did you have something to eat?” She noticed the other woman in the room and lightly smacked her own forehead with the heel of her hand.  “Ah, where are my manners?”

She grabbed Kaimi by the shoulders, steering her to face Logan.  “This is my TA and top student: Ms. Kaimi Alvi.”

“Oh, Professor Abbott, thank you.”  Kaimi colored prettily. Logan resisted the urge to scowl.

Julia smiled.  “I only speak The Truth.”

“The most important resource that we have and the instrument that keeps society running smoothly,”  Kaimi and Logan said in unison. They looked at each other, excited and irritated, respectively.

Professor Abbott cackled.  “I’ve brainwashed you both well.”  She sauntered past Logan and had to reach up to ruffle his hair.  She clucked disapprovingly. “You’ve been growing when I haven’t been looking again, haven’t you?”

Logan adjusted his glasses - thick round frames that reminded him of Harry Potter.  “Your visual access to me has no rate on my growth rate whatsoever, Mom.”

She shook her head, mock-rueful.  “I raised a scientist,” She sighed at Kaimi.  “Where did I go wrong?”

Logan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “In response to your earlier inquisition: I wanted to surprise you, yes, no, not yet, and lost in the coldest depths of Russian siberia with my sense of humor.”

Kaimi laughed.  Logan did not.

“Kaimi’s been helping me with some of my freelance research.  She's a bit annoying,” Professor Abbott joked. “But she seems to keep me out of the worst trouble.”

“Yeah.” Kaimi grinned, just shy of sheepish. “Last week I had to convince her not to break into the capitol building for evidence on those corruption charges.”

Logan blinked at Kaimi slowly, reconsidering.  “Ms. Alvi,” He said eventually. “Do you like mint tea?”

 

Logan glared with the heat of a thousand suns at Virgil across the table.  “I cannot believe,” He snapped. “That you told on me to Patton!”

“And _I_ can’t believe that you emotionally manipulated me, lied to me, and make me become a villain,”  Virgil fired back. “Also, you told first.”

“I most certainly did no such thing!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Didn’t actually,”  Patton interrupted them before the conversation threatened to get stuck on loop.  He sat down, usually pleasant face contorted with barely-concealed ire.

“Then…”  Virgil looked at him, perplexed.  “How come when I called you, the first thing you said was ‘why didn’t you tell me you’re The Savior’?”

“I saw you performing Welcome To The Black Parade on the news.”  Patton’s mouth quirked ironically as Virgil winced. He had almost managed to block that particularly traumatic memory.  “I recognized your voice.” Patton didn’t even seem sad, that was the worst part. He was simply resigned, so overcome with grief and anger that he let it wash over him, rolling off until he was blank.

“Logan made me do it!”  Virgil blurted out, pointing an accusing finger at the astronomer.  “He’s the one we should be mad at here!”

Patton gently smacked his hand down.  “Oh, no, Kiddo. I’m pissed off at both of you.”

The two villains flinched, slinking down in their seats and turning sullen eyes to study the tabletop.

“I don’t think that I need to tell you how disappointed I am.”  Patton swallowed thickly. “You two are… you’re everything to me, and then I find out this?”  He laughed bitterly. “Just how much do you keep from me?”

They both rushed to comfort him, words tripping over the other’s.

“-never our intent-”

“-I didn’t want to lie-”

“-It’s far more complex than a mere-”

“-there’s just so much going on-”

“-concerned for your mental state-”

“-to protect you-”

Their words pressed down on the baker until he was trembling, not with sorrow, but with rage.  “You know what? No,” He said lowly, but both men continued to talk, filling the air with their empty excuses.  

“I said ‘no’,”  Patton repeated, a bit louder.

They continued to talk.

“I SAID NO!”  Patton shouted at them; they both promptly shut up, eyeing him warily.  “You two-” He leveled a finger at them. “You two don’t _get_ to apologize.  Because guess what?  An ‘I’m sorry’ means ‘I’ll never do it again’.  And, right now, I don’t fucking trust either of you not to lie to me again!”

“Patton,”  Virgil started, beseechingly.  “I didn’t-”

“Did I say that you got to talk?”  Patton snarled. “Because I don’t remember giving either of you permission to talk.”

Virgil flinched back.  Normally the sight would be enough to make the baker’s paternal instincts kick in as he rushed to soothe the emo, but Patton was starting to think that he needed to be a little selfish sometimes.

“Virgil, you’re a villain!”  Patton cried, throwing his hands up.  “Do you know how insane that is? You’ve been telling me for years how much you hate Supers on both sides, and now you’re joining them and having an, I don’t know, an affair or something with The Prince?

“And you!”  He rounded on Logan.  He faltered for a moment, remembering the taste of Logan’s lips against his, the way his hands had felt cupping the baker’s face.  “I thought you were telling the truth when you told me how much I mean to you.”

“Patton, I was!”  Logan protested, eyes widening in panic.  “You’re-”

“Were you?”  Patton cut him off, ignoring the twisting of the invisible dagger someone had shoved into his heart.  “Because if you really love and respect me as much as you _claimed,_ why didn’t you tell me anything?  I asked you if you had any more secrets, and all that you said was ‘Actually, that’s about it.’  Should the ‘about’ have tipped me off, Logan? Wouldn’t you trust me with something like this if I _really_ meant that much to you?”

“Patton, please,”  Logan begged. “You don’t understand the whole story.”

“And that’s my problem, isn’t it?”  The dagger in Patton’s chest had turned into lava and was slowly melting him away, leaving nothing but heartbreak.  “You don’t think I understand enough. I don’t understand enough about The Truth; I don’t understand why you both would want to do something about all of this!  You think that I’m just a stupid little baker who’s there to make you cookies and pretend that everything is okay!” Patton glared at them, chest heaving. “Well, it’s not.  Nothing about this is okay.”

“Patton, I would never-”  Logan started.

“But you kinda did.”  Virgil snapped at him.

Logan snarled at him.  “I’m trying very hard to remain civil here, Virgil, but you’re not making it easy on me.”

Virgil’s eyes flashed, and he sat up, growling.  “Oh, I’m so sorry, _boss,_ am I being a bad little villain again?  Because that’s what you made me!”

The conversation between Virgil and Logan started up again, insults and accusations hurled as Patton sat in the middle of it, ignored.

“I can’t believe this,”  He muttered, shoving his chair back from the table and stalking away.

“Patton,”  Virgil broke away to call after him helplessly.  “Where are you going?”

“The bathroom!”  The baker snapped.  “I need to get away from both of you for a minute.”

Patton stormed away, his brow furrowed and his heart aching.  They had lied to him. Both of them. They had lied to him this entire time.

He rounded a corner, anger tightening his chest and sorrow prickling at his eyes.  He was going to cry, but he didn’t know if they would be tears of fury, lamentation, or sheer vexation.

He was surrounded by liars.

He rounded another corner and found himself in front of two doors, identical in every way except for the signs adorning them.  A pink circle depicted the silhouette of a woman in a triangle skirt. A blue square showed the blocky outline of a man _._  Patton swallowed deeply, hand coming up to clutch at his opposite forearm.

Oh.

He didn’t know why he was surprised.  He faced the exact same decision every time he left his apartment or Bake My Day.  The world was absolutely determined to sort people into neat little categories, and male or female was one of the simplest divisors.

He was being stupid.  All he had to do was go into the Men’s room.  That’s normally what he would do; that’s what felt natural some of the time.  This was ridiculous. He had more important things to worry about, like the fact that all of his friends were lying to him.

(He took a moment to consider latching onto Kaimi.  She was rather brusque, but a painful truth was better than a pretty lie.)

He just had to go into the Men’s room.

His feet didn’t move.

He was suddenly, painfully aware of the weight of the blue band wrapped around his right wrist.  It felt as if it were scalding his skin. He had bought the entire set shortly after realizing that there was a name for this thing where he spontaneously felt uncomfortable with the words people tried to ensnare him in: genderfluid.  He had only bought the blue bands because he had thought that that would be enough. That he could learn to be content trying to be what everyone else wanted him to be.

Patton ripped off the bracelet and let it fall to the floor.  The baker’s wrists were bare now - a perfectly blank slate.

Patton looked back and forth between the two bathrooms, both still inspiring only malcontent and discomfort.

Patton was surrounded by liars.

Patton did not want to be one of those liars.

Either door would turn the baker into just that.

A frustrated thing halfway between a groan and a growl escaped the baker’s lips as Patton sank to the floor, arms wrapping around torso.  Patton stared at the ugly green carpet of the public library and started to cry.

Tears of frustration, of rage, of helplessness, of uncertainty, of grief fell from electric blue eyes, staining the carpet below.  It was just so unfair. Patton wasn’t a man or a woman. Maybe closer to one or the other sometimes, or maybe almost another, but never quite either.

It wasn't even Patton's body that was the problem.  Patton's body was great! It was soft and squishy and smelled nice and gave great hugs and felt _fantastic_ when he was kissing Logan.  It was how everyone else insisted on seeing Patton's body that was the problem.  It looked male, but Patton wasn't male.

There were two more bracelets in Patton's pocket- one pink and one purple, but the baker was nowhere near confident enough to put either one of them on.  It was too scary to just reveal the delicate, pulsating thing that was Patton's heart and put it on the baker’s sleeve.

Patton's arms curled even further, head ducking down into the enclave that formed.

This entire thing just wasn't _fair._

A throat was suddenly cleared and Patton looked up to see an old man, with a spine curved enough to use as a question mark, hunched over a janitor’s cart.  “You okay there, son?”

That just set Patton off again.  “I’m not a son! Or a man, or a dude or a guy or a sir or anything else everyone calls me!”  Was wailed between sobs.

The janitor’s wrinkled face creased even further with concern.  “Oh, I’m sorry about that, kid.” The old man’s voice was faded with age, cracking and creaking like ancient leather.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Patton’s head shook.  “It’s fine.” A self-deprecating smile.  “I’m kinda used to it.”

The janitor frowned.  “Well, you shouldn’t be.”

Patton laughed bitterly, wiping away tears and standing up.  “How can I not be?” The baker gestured at the two doors. “It's not like I'm ever given another option. It's always one or the other, and I can never be anything else!”

“Hey, pal?”  The wizened old janitor looked at Patton strangely.  “You know there’s a family restroom right behind you, right?”

Patton blinked, wiping away tears, and turned around to see the indicated bathroom.

Oh.

Family.

“Oh, my bad.”  The janitor received a grateful smile, and Patton, heart a tiny bit lighter, slipped through the door adorned with _both_ the male and female silhouettes.

Virgil and Logan were still arguing when Patton returned.

“Logan, I just…”  Virgil looked at his friend plantatively.  “I don’t understand how you could’ve said what you did at the gala.  All that stuff about Roman and me…”

Logan flushed, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his tie in a familiar tick.  “Yes, I fear that my actions at that particular instance were rather untoward.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.”  Virgil snapped.

“Now, Kiddos,”  Patton, sitting down, looked at both of them sternly.

“Do forgive me if I am erroneous, but I do believe that calling me ‘kiddo’ is rather… ‘not cool, dude’ after we have had our tongues in each others mouths.”  Logan muttered sullenly.

“This is unfair!”  Virgil suddenly chimed in.  “He’s the moderator, and you’re trying to turn him against me!”

“When did this become a debate?!”  Logan protested.

While the two of them were bickering, thankfully only landing shallow verbal blows now, Patton gathered up the courage to speak.  Dry lips were licked, a throat was cleared, and sweaty palms were clenched. Shoulders heaved with the effort of breathing, and Patton suddenly felt precariously balanced on a tightrope; the slightest warble would mean an endless fall into the unknown.

But Patton was not going to be yet another liar.

“It’s ‘they’, actually,”  They blurted out, interrupting Logan mid-sentence and showcasing the a purple wristband on their plump, freckled arm, as if for evidence.  Gray and deep brown eyes swiveled towards them, and Patton swallowed thickly, fear coiling in their gut. “Virge said ‘he’, but it’s actually more of a ‘they’ day.”

That was enough to silence both men for a moment.

“Oh shi- shoot,”  Virgil amended himself preemptively.  “My bad, Pat.” He turned back to Logan, scowling.  “But that still doesn’t change the fact that you’re trying to use the fact that you made out with them against me!”

“Falsehood!”  Logan screeched.

“Do I need to make out with Patton to even the odds?”  Virgil demanded. “I will make out with them right here, right now.”

“You are not making out with them!”  Logan cried. “We are in a library!”

“That implies I can make out with them elsewhere.”

 _“No one_ is making out with _anyone,_ especially not in a library!”

“Logan, buddy, I’m not trying to kinkshame here, but I am literally the one who beta read that over one-hundred thousand word self-insert fanfiction of you and Sherlock having hot library sex.  I know you have a library kink. It’s okay, man, this is a very judgement-free zone.”

_“FALSEHOOD!”_

“For the love of god, _SHUT UP!”_  Someone a few stacks away yelled.

The three of them winced, but the argument soon started up again, albeit in aggressive whispers.

Patton realized that the feeling that had been building in their gut as their friends argued was a combination of exasperation and sheer joy.  They looked back and forth between two of their two favorite people in the world, who had so easily taken their pronouns in stride, who were still arguing, who were stupid, beautiful, stubborn men, and they started to cry.

“Patton?”

They suddenly tuned back in to see Logan and Virgil staring at them with concern.

“ ‘You good, fahm?’ ”  Logan asked.

Virgil slapped him a high five on instinct, then realized what he had just done and scowled.  He softened, however, as he turned to Patton. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,”  Patton laughed and shook their head, wiping away a stray tear.  “The three of us are a just bunch of dumbasses who love each other.  Fam-I-L-Y, right?” They grinned then fixed both men with a stern Dad Glare.  (They may have been genderfluid, but the power of the Dad Glare transcended petty human definitions of gender.)  “Now, you two are going to talk all of this out, everyone is going to apologize, and then I’m going to continue to roast you both into oblivion, got it?”

They both winced and looked off sullenly.  “Got it.”

 

“Have you noticed that Missy Darnelle is missing?”  Kaimi suddenly asked Calamity.

The other woman looked up from her whittling - because of _course_ she did woodcarving.  “What on Earth ‘re ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

The vigilante had invited the reporter over to “Netflix and Chill” which had led Kaimi to hastily blurt out that she didn't do hookups ‘because, you know, Islam and all that and also she just wasn't at that level yet!’

Which had led to an equally hastily blurted statement that ‘wait shoot, is that what that means? Katrina was never using non-southern slang or trusting Doc Ayodele again ever. Plus, she was asexual so, oops.’

This resulted in awkward laughter and the two of them chilling (no Netflix involved) in Katrina's oddly spartan apartment.  It had the suspicious appearance of being hurriedly cleaned; a mix-matched pair of socks were stuck in a kitchen drawer, and an assortment of junk was peeking out from under the closet door.  The rest of the home was patched together with threadbare furniture, expensive yet tattered, as if uncared for.

Air freshener had been sprayed in copious amounts in an attempt to cover up the smell of burnt nicotine.

One would think that the two women would be a bit shaken by their encounter with The Sandman’s induced comas, but in New Psyche, it was odder _not_ to get wrapped up in some Super battle during your week.

They were sitting - well, Kaimi was sitting; Katrina was sprawled out - with one of Calamity’s legs flung in Kaimi’s lap.  Kaimi mindlessly ran her fingers over the exposed ankle, rough with hair. Something about the odd intimacy of the gesture thrilled them both, although they were both trying to play it cool.

“I'm looking through Instagram, and normally my feed is spammed by all of her selfies and announcements, but ever since she got engaged-”  Kaimi waved her hands. “-nothing! Isn't that weird?”

Katrina sat up, pulling herself closer on the couch as she chewed on her nicotine gum.  Mindlessly, she threw her carving knife behind her; it landed perfectly in its holding stand on the counter.  “I suppose she's just busy with all tha hunnymoon bliss.”

“Yeah,”  The journalist conceded.  “That's what I thought too.”  She tilted the screen towards the other woman.  “But then I saw this.”

It took Calamity a second to process what she was seeing.  “Is that…” She squinted. “Her account history?” She side-eyed the journalist.  “I ain't quite certain ya got this legally.”

“You're a vigilante. You have no room to talk.”

“Fair.”

“But isn't it weird?”  Kaimi scanned the diagrams.  “Twenty posts a day at specific times of the day _every_ day for two years, and she suddenly just stops?”

“When’d it happ’n?”  Katrina scooted closer, and they both pretended not to notice when she laid her hand on top of the other woman’s.

“The morning after the gala.”  With her free hand, the reporter pointed out a sudden dip in the activity.  “It just cut off.”

“Did ya check her other stuff too?”

“Everything!”  Kaimi clicked open her other tabs.  “SnapChat, Facebook, Twitter, _Linked-In._ Linked-In!”  She scrolled through her feeds rapidly, eyes scanning.  “She’s just _gone.”_  She scowled.  “I mean, it’s not that out-of-character, I guess.  She started acting pretty erratic when she met The Prince.”

Calamity tilted her head, twisting the end of her long braid between her knobby fingers.  “You knew her?”

Kaimi gave a noncommittal hum.  “I mean, not well. She was a reporter too through; it was sort of a friend-of-a-friend type thing.  The journalism community’s pretty tight-knit.” A touch of sadness twisted her mouth. “I always kinda liked her though.  I guess I was wrong, or maybe she just let the celebrity get to her head.”

“She’s got her nose so stuck up, she’d down in a rainstorm.”  Katrina muttered before deciding to let that particular train of conversation die before it veered into depressing.  “Did ya check the purchase history of their assets, oh lil’ miss mildly legal researcher? She’s in charge of them, ain’t she?”

“No, that wouldn’t-”  Kaimi started to dismiss her before the vigilante's words fully registered.  “Oh, that’s a good idea.”

Calamity winked.  “Even a broken clock gets it right twice a day.”

“Sorry.”  Kaimi winced.  “I kinda suck when it comes to actually listening to other people.”

“Luckily, I’ve been told I’m ‘bout as obvious as lipstick on a swine.”

“I swear you just make these up.”

“You’ll never be able to prove it, doll.”

They only managed to stay serious for about five seconds of silence before they both burst out laughing.

Kaimi shot off a quick email.  “I’ve got a friend, Jay Harper, who works at the bank.  He owes me one, and I’m pretty sure she can get into the records.”

“Does tellin’ me make me your accomplice in the crime?”  Katrina, taking needing to look at the laptop screen as an excuse to tuck her chin on Kaimi’s shoulder, asked.

“I’m dragging you down with me.”  Kaimi quipped, leaning her head so they were pressed cheek-to-cheek.

“Ya just need me to be your muscle in tha slammer, doncha?”

“My secret reason for romancing you revealed.”

“I susp’ted it tha whole time.”

A new email popped up in Kaimi’s inbox.

 _You’re no longer allowed to bring up the Mr. Contemptible incident._  Was written beneath a PDF titled ‘Prince Inc. Purchase history’.

“Mr. Contemptible incident?”  Calamity quirked an eyebrow.

“No longer allowed to bring it up, _peach.”_  Kaimi fired back, clicking open the document.

Calamity fell back dramatically, hand pressed over her heart.  “Tha world has gone cattywampus! My own nickname! Used against me!  Why tha-” She petered off as she realized Kaimi wasn’t paying attention.  “You good there, darlin’?”

“Bullets.  Midday after the gala...”  Kaimi muttered, brow scrunched in confusion.  “What would they want with...” Her eyes sparkled.  “I gotta get on this!” She uprooted herself in a flury, flinging her laptop into her book bag.  “I’ll catch you later, yeah?” She asked, practically buzzing with energy.

“Sounds good ta me.”  Katrina, mildly put-out, said as she rose and went to stand by the door.  “But what is tha ruckus ‘bout?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.  Isn’t that fantastic?” Kaimi grinned at her as she slid on her shoes, fingers jittery with potential.  She was electric when on a story, every fiber in her body itching to move, to investigate, to do _something._  Maybe that’s why she bounced up on her toes to give Katrina a kiss goodbye before rushing out of the door.

Katrina stood, frozen for a moment before Kaimi slowly reentered the room.

“Did I just-”  The journalist felt rather incapable of finishing her own sentence.

“Yup.”  Calamity felt rather incapable of forming anything other than monosyllabic sounds.

“And did you just-”

“Yup.”

“So we just-”

“Yup.”

A flurry of apologies fell from the journalist’s lips.  “Oh no, Kat, I am so sorry I wasn’t thinking andIjustdidittotallymybadIwasn’tthinkingwaitshootIalreadysaidthatIamsosorry-”

Calamity waited out the word vomit until Kaimi finally stopped.  The reporter winced. “Are you… mad at me?”

That seemed to jolt the vigilante back to life.  She tilted her head down to meet Kaimi’s worried gaze and a soft, fond smile curled her mouth.  Katrina was not a beautiful woman, but no thousand-kilowatt beam, no seductive smirk, no beautiful smile could’ve melted Kaimi like that crooked little grin.

“The only way I could possibly be mad, peach,”  Katrina finally said. “Is if you didn’t do it again.”

So Kaimi did.

 

Roman leaped onto the roof of the warehouse effortlessly and pressed his fingertips into the tin; he closed his eyes, concentrating on the minute vibrations of footsteps against concrete.  At least fifty people were inside. The clattering of metal meant they heavily armed.

Roman decided that he might as well make a dramatic entrance.

Tucking his fingers under a raised section of the roof, he carefully peeled it back, peering inside and waiting until the coast was clear.

He dropped to the floor in the classic superhero landing, one knee and one fist flat to the ground.  He slowly lifted his head and made eye contact with about twelve rather terrified henchmen standing in a room otherwise only populated by crates.  He flashed a charming smile as he stood up, casually brushing off his spotless uniform. “Sorry, is this fight club? I think I've gotten a bit turned around.”

Hero and henchmen stared each other down for a moment before one henchman came to his senses and fired.

“Looks like it is!”  The Prince cried as he effortlessly caught the projectile in his hand.  He looked at for a second and raised his eyebrows. “Woah, .40 caliber? What type of budget are you guys working on?”  He blurred past the first henchman, knocking him out on his way. “Seriously, if the henchman-ing salary is proportional, I’m interested.”

His rather clever banter was returned with the entire group suddenly swarming him.  He appreciated the avoidance of trying to go after him one at a time, he really did, but who did they think they were kidding?

“Oh, I'm sorry!”  Roman exclaimed, effortlessly dodging two and using their momentum to send them crashing into the wall.  “I forgot the first rule: no talking about fight club.” He dropped to the ground, knocking the legs of another out from beneath him.

“Isn’t that also the second rule?”  The Prince mused as he zipped forward, knocking out all but one of the henchman before they could blink.  He sunnily smiled at the last one, casually flicking a speck of blood off of his cheek.

“Um,”  He squeaked.  “Yes?”

The hero nodded sagely.  “That’s what I thought.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

“So…”  Roman nodded his head awkwardly, looking around.  “Where’s the secret entrance?”

“Umm.”  The guard stammered.  “What- what secret entrance?”

Roman rolled his eyes, grabbed him by the neck and lept back up through the hole in the roof.   _“The_ secret entrance,”  He said mildly, dangling the henchman over the edge of the roof and eyeing the churning, dark waters below.  “I sensed at least fifty people down there, but there were only twelve. So either there’s a secret entrance to some sub-level, or I’m just…”  He let his grip loosen a bit, and the guard yelped as he came dangerously close to falling. _“Slipping.”_

The look the henchman gave him insinuated that he would rather die than be forced to listen to another of Roman’s incredibly clever puns.

So, The Prince dropped him.

The guard screamed on the way down, and Roman watched him cooly, only blurring down to catch him at the last second.

“Crate marked ‘Snake Skin Purses’,”  The guard gasped out before The Prince even had a chance to ask him again.

“Sweet,”  The hero said, then casually hurled him into the nearest dumpster.

He sauntered inside, punching in the side of the indicated crate to reveal a staircase, leading down into the darkness.  Only the smallest light at the end showed any indication that life resided down the surprisingly humid corridor. “That doesn’t look ominous at all,”  Roman muttered, beginning to pick his way down the narrow steps.

After relatively few missteps - all things considered - he emerged in a dimly lit room with every wall plastered with monitors.  Camera feeds showed jargon in the form of graphs and blueprints and video feeds of various parts of New Psyche. A henchman was sitting with his back to Roman, tapping intently at his keyboard.  Roman crept up silently behind him, determined to see what villainous scheme he was concocting, but he was just playing minesweeper.

“Big mood,”  Roman casually commented, leaning roguishly against a control panel.  He bit back a grin as the henchman whirled around, eyes widening as he took in the world’s most powerful man in the secret base.

“You!”  The henchman cried, scrambling for his gun, but The Prince effortlessly sped to grab it before he did.

Roman held the weapon teasingly out of the grunt’s grasp.  “Uh-uh,” he tisked. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s just bad manners to shoot your guests?  Especially when they’re about to defeat your evil boss, leaving you all the time in the world to play minesweeper.”

The henchman snarled.  “You may think you’re so clever, but you’ll never truly defeat Doctor Deceit!”

Roman groaned in frustration.  “That tool again?” He decked the henchman, sending him flying through the air as the hero grumbled to himself.  “These supervillains never learn.”

Sirens blared, and red lights flashed, flooding the room.  On cue, a swarm of henchpeople rushed in, guns at the ready.  Roman just rolled his eyes.

“For the record,”  He said, raising his hands in mock surrender.  “I would like to say that any and all who choose to lay down their weapons now will be given preferential, possibly bordering on lover-like, treatment.”

A single guard casually dropped his gun, eyes darting shiftily to see if his fellow henchmen were going to make fun of him.

“Kenny, you fucking sell-out,”  The henchman behind him scoffed, cuffing him over the head.

“That’s it,”  The Prince sighed, lowering his hands and rolling his shoulders.  “You’re going down first.”

“Wha-”  Whatever retort the henchman had in mind was swiftly cut off by a very heroic fist to his jugular.  He dropped to the ground, gasping for air.

Immediately, the henchmen began to fire at Roman, who flinched.  The bullets didn’t _harm_ him, but they weren’t exactly a luxury massage either.  “Kenny?” He asked, trying to shield the rebel underneath his muscular arm.  His handsome face shone with sweat from the exertion and was alight with the ferocious joy of battle.

Kenny looked up at him, blushing.  “Yes?”

“I certainly hope your armor is bulletproof,”  The Prince said before hurling him at a line of fellow guards.  They toppled like bowling pins, and Roman made the sound effect before he could stop himself.

“You good there, Kenny?”  He called, ducking underneath another volley of fire and snapping a few wrists.

The rebel groaned and lifted a sarcastic thumbs-up.  “Just peachy.” He let his head flop onto his matress of unconscious bodies.  “What happened to the ‘lover-like treatment’?”

Roman guffawed, leaping into the air to wrap his legs around the neck of an oncoming attacker.  He was unconscious before they hit the ground. “I once dislocated the shoulder of the last person I made out with.  You got off easy.”

“Noted,”  Kenny yelped as a henchman charged at him.  The rebel scrambled for a gun, shooting the attacker in the knee before he could land a blow.

The Prince wove through the enemy, his synapses firing on all cylinders and a grin etched into his face.  A psychologist would probably have a field day analyzing the elation the hero garnered from fighting, but The Prince couldn't bring himself to care.  This was what he was _made_ for.  His feet barely skimmed the ground as he danced around his adversaries.  There was an odd grace in his movements, a brutal sort of artistry.

In the roughest sense of the word, he was a dancer.

He leapt through the air, dodging attacks.  He pivoted fluidly, disarming a few guards. He spun around with one leg extended, knocking out several.  He added in a persusional beat to his movements - the dry snap of bone, the wet slap of a body hitting the ground.

They didn’t even stand a chance.

Before too long, Roman stood, surveying the carnage, with Kenny huddled at his side.

“Aw, man,”  He muttered, looking down at a spot of red on his uniform.  “I just got this cleaned.”

Roman, spotless save for the flush of exertion on his cheeks, arched an eyebrow.  “Doctor Deceit doesn’t pay for your dry cleaning?”

Kenny shrugged distractedly, trying to scratch off the stain.  “Don’t know; I’ve never met him. I don’t think any of us have.”

The Prince’s lip curled.  “Consider yourself lucky.”  It took him a moment to get back on track.  “Where’s Missy, by the way?”

“Somewhere down there.”  Kenny gestured towards a rusted iron door.  “Careful through, the place is built like a maze.”

The Prince smirked.  “I think I’ll be just fine, thanks.”

“Hey, um, before you go… Can I have your autograph?”  Kenny blurted out, shoving a sharpie at him.

Roman took it with no little confusion.  “Where did you get this?” The garish yellow henchman uniforms had no pockets.

“I’d prefer not to say.”

Roman quickly signed the man’s arm and sent him on his way.

The door squealed on its hinges as Roman shoved it open.  He winced at the sound, stepping into a dark amalgamation of tunnels and concrete rooms and natural caves.  He ignored the - once again, _weird_ \- humidity in the air, closing his eyes in an attempt to concentrate.

Distant water falling into rocks - no.  The many, skittering legs of things that crawled underground - no. The smooth slide of a snake’s belly - no.  The howling of wind as it wound its way through the stalagmites pushing their way up through the ground like gnarled witches’ fingers - no.  A heartbeat, soft and rapid - yes.

His eyes snapped open. “MISSY?”  He called, the sound echoing through the cavernous base and magnifying itself tenfold.  By the time it returned to his ears, his voice was diminished, only a fraction of what it had originally been.

He could hear the slightest shift of hair brushing against skin, then a word - his name - softly and hopefully spoken.  “Roman?”

“Missy, I’m here!”  He began to blur through the caverns, but he couldn’t find his way through the walls, twisting and winding like the burrow of a snake.  He stared at the rock wall - unable to tell if it was natural or artificial - and weighed his options as Missy cried out in response.

Well, he hadn’t exactly gotten this far on his excellent risk-analysis skills.

Tucking in his shoulder, he barrelled straight through the cave wall.  For a moment as the rocks settled, there was absolute silence, as if every inhabitant of the cavern was holding its breath, trying to see if the roof would cave in.

It didn’t.

“Roman!”  A wail sounded somewhere to his left.

“Missy!”  He cried, slamming through several more walls in an attempt to get closer.  “Missy, where are you?”

“I’m over here!”  She responded.

He smashed through a final wall, coughing as the dust cleared, and he saw her.

She was a mess.  Her blonde hair hung, limp and matted in front of her face.  Her bruised wrists were bound together with the same type of rough rope that tied her ankles to the legs of a rickety metal chair.  She looked up at him, hair shifting, and he saw the huge gash, lined with congealed blood, that married her forehead. “Roman!” She gasped out.

He rushed to her side, tearing through the ropes like tissue paper and sweeping her in for a hug.  “I’m sorry, Missy,” He murmured into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She sobbed into his chest, clutching her delicate hands into his shirt.  “I was so scared,” She gasped out between wails. “They kept screaming at me in their minds, and I could hear all of them.  I could hear their hate, and it was so _loud_ and it hurt!  Where were-” She cut both her words and sobs off.  “With _him?”_

She pushed back him, and her icy blue eyes stared at him accusingly.  “You let me get kidnapped because you were _cheating_ on me with _him?”_

Roman didn't resist the invasion of his mind; he was used to it.  He wasn’t quite able to resist the guilt trip either. He ripped off a portion of his sleeve, pressing it gently to the gash on her forehead.  “Let's get you cleaned up,” He said quietly. “Then we need to talk.”

 

By the summer Logan and Kaimi became twenty-two and twenty-one, respectively, they were as thick as thieves.

Despite Kaimi’s protests that she wasn’t actually an Abbott, Professor Julia Abbott frequently lamented that she had inadvertently turned her children against her.  “I never should’ve let you two meet,” She often clucked. “Too much crazy to not try and change the world.”

They crashed at each other’s places more often than not, staying up all through the night running over anything and everything they could think of, dragging each other up the next day with shadows stamped under their eyes and mischief dancing on their lips.  They vowed not to do it again each morning, but those promises were always thrown away by the time the sun set; Logan popped up on Kaimi’s doorstep with a jar of Crofter’s and a supposedly unsolvable puzzle, or Kaimi threw rocks up at Logan’s window “for the aesthetic” and started arguing with him from three stories down about the existence of cryptids until he finally threw his hands up in frustration and invited her inside.

They were on the untouchable, immortal, intoxicating high that can only come from the dreamy slowness of summertime with a true friend.

Those months passed in a molasses-sweet haze of happiness.  They were alive on the sheer confidence that can only come with being in your early twenties - no longer a child, but not yet weary enough to be a typical adult.

But every summer must come to an end, just as every child must grow up, must adopt the weariness that draws wrinkles around their eyes, the exhaustion that kisses their heads and leaves gray hair in its wake.  For Logan and Kaimi, the beginning of the end was a phone conversation, two months after Logan returned to college.

“Are you quite sure that particular scheme is something you want to be investigating?”  Logan tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, rearranging the shelf of his favorite mystery novels.  Last week it had been by height of spine; this week it would be by color of cover. He danced his fingers along the spine of _And Then There Were None,_ debating if it needed to go beside _A Study in Scarlet_ or _Rebecca._  “Hate groups aren’t exactly a pleasant bunch, by definition.”

“But that’s just it!”  Julia protested, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear, rearranging her row of nail polish bottles into a color gradient.  “This Powered Citizens United whatever has been posing as a social club for generations now. It’s the most insanely open secret. If Kaimi and I can unveil the Truth about them-”

Logan spared a moment to appreciate the fact that his mother still spoke “truth” like it should be capitalized.

“-then we’d be able to uproot one of the major centers of bigotry in New Psyche!”

Logan still wavered.  “I’m still unsure that’s wise to poke the metaphorical wasps’ nest, especially when you have a metaphorical wasp-target on your back.”  He anxiously tapped his fingers against the dark oak bookshelf. “Didn't they already send you a death threat?”

“That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.”  She laughed. “I know, Logan. Kaimi had to talk me into it too. But we’ll be fine, I promise.  I've been getting death threats longer than you've been alive.” She turned from the shelf of nail varnish, accidentally knocking over the bottle on the far end.  It fell to the ground and shattered, splattering flame-red liquid over the tiled floor. She huffed out a frustrated sigh. “I gotta put you down for a second, honey. Just hang on the line.”

As she mopped up the red seeping into her floors, Logan’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.  Logan pulled the phone away from his face to check. ‘Partner in Crime’ had sent _You’re still coming home this weekend, right?_

He smiled softly.  Kaimi, after taking more hours than humanly possible in addition to summer classes, was graduating a year early.  The ceremony was that weekend.

 _Indeed._  He responded.   _I can’t wait to see you two._

 _Me neither!_ She responded after a moment.   _And your mom’s going to be so surprised!_

“Logan?”  Professor Abbott’s voice returned, tiny and diluted from being carried by radio waves, bounced into outer space, and the phone being pulled away from Logan’s ear.  “Honey?”

“I’m right here.”  He tucked the phone back into the nook between his shoulder and ear.  He glanced at the clock and frowned. “I’ve got to go, Mom. It’s late.”  He had to get up early to catch the flight back to New Psyche. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Julia sighed.  “So brisk, this son of mine. Are you even going to tell your poor, old mother that you love her?”

“Moooom,”  Logan groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Loooogan,”  She mimicked.  “Don’t play like that to me, son. I know all of your old tricks by now.”

He smiled and rolled his eyes.  “I love you, Mom. Be safe.”

She smiled.  “I love you too, honey.”  She didn’t respond to the second part of his statement.  She never did.

The line clicked dead.

Early Saturday morning, a bleary-eyed Logan stumbled off of the plane and straight into Kaimi’s awaiting hug.  “You’re here!” She cheered, squeezing him.

“Really?”  He groaned, wrapping his arms around her nonetheless.  “But elsewhere sounds much more preferable.”

She just rolled her eyes and drove them to her apartment.  Logan crashed for a power nap on the couch as she fussed with her graduation cap, trying to find the hijab that matched the color as closely as possible.

Far too soon for him and not soon enough for her, the ceremony arrived.  Logan managed to invigorate himself sufficiently to pay attention, clapping politely at all the right moments.  He couldn’t help, however, but to stand and cheer when Kaimi crossed the stage, taking her diploma and a handshake from Professor Abbott.

Later, he snagged the official photographer for the ceremony and purchased a copy of the graduation photo.  Even later, it would hang on the wall by his desk, right next to a picture of him, Virgil, and Patton.

Logan crept up behind his mother as Kaimi jabbered on about something or another, keeping her distracted.  They caught each other’s eyes, and twin gleams of mischief sparkled.

Professor Abbott caught on.  “Kaimi, what on Earth are you-”  She turned around, cutting herself off at the sight of her son.  “Logan!” She cried, hands clamping over her mouth.

He grinned at her.  “Mother.”

She flung her arms around him, hugging him close.  “Oh, baby boy, I'm so happy to see you.”

Kaimi wanted to go Skype her parents back in Pakistan, so Professor Abbott and Logan went home to catch up.

Logan volunteered to go get dinner.

He was walking back home, bag of takeout swinging idly from his wrist, when he saw the smoke.

It was coming from the direction of his house.  He picked up his pace, fumbling for his phone and hitting his mother’s number on speed dial.

It went straight to voicemail.

He hit it again.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

In the distance, sirens started to wail.

Logan broke into a run, flinging the takeout somewhere behind him.  He sprinted towards his house, rounding the corner only to come to a dead halt.

His house had gone up in flames.

Someone was screaming.  That was rude of them. If anything, Logan should've been the one screaming here.  Then he felt the rawness in his throat and realized that he _was_ the one screaming.

His eyes darted around frantically as the firemen roared on scene.  Where was his mother? Surely she was there, snapping pictures on her phone and already making frantic notes on an article about attempts to silence the press.  Surely, she was about to come up beside him, call him ‘honey’ and make a biting quip about how he couldn't get rid of her that easily.

But she wasn't.

The house gave off the most horrific heat, practically singeing Logan's eyebrows, although he was across the street.  

It was a galaxy, settled right in his yard.  The flames licked into the smoky gray sky, as if they were trying to make up for the sun’s absence.  He watched as the windows of the house shattered from the strain of standing against the scorching fire.  Broken bits of glass rained down like falling stars. The roof caved in, sending up a flurry of brilliant red sparks, streaking through the night like comets.

“Mom,”  Logan said, his feet unconsciously moving him closer.  “Mom!” He screamed at the uncaring fire. He was in his own front yard, watching as the flames rolled out of the door like an unwelcome visitor.

His mother was inside.

He was running through the open door before he even made the decision to.  “Stop!” Someone, probably a fireman, called, but soon all sounds but the roaring crackle of the fire were suppressed.

The heat inside was overwhelming.  Logan pulled his shirt over his nose, trying to ignore how the smoke make his eyes water and his lungs ache.  He staggered further inside, flinching whenever the flames licked too close. He was boiling alive inside of his own skin.

“Mom?”  He called, voice rough with smoke.  “Mom?!”

No one responded, so he stumbled further in.  He stepped on a buckled floorboard, and it cracked open under his weight.  He slammed into the ground, howling in pain when the gap in the floor shore skin from his leg.  He looked at it with wild eyes and withdrew his calf, ignoring the nausea rising in his throat when he saw that his pants were slick with blood.

There was less smoke at floor-level.  Less to obstruct his vision. That's when he saw it.

A woman's hand, attached to an arm leading under a collapsed support beam.  Julia’s hand.

Logan pulled himself up, ignoring the excruciating pain in his leg.  “Mom, I'm here!” He scrambled over, trying to get any purchase on the still-burning beam.  “I'm going to get you out of there, okay?” The tears in his eyes didn't have a chance to fall; heat evaporated them as soon they tried.  “You gotta…” He grasped at the rafter desperately, ignoring the burns forming on his hands. “Just hang on, Momma.”

He managed to wedge his fingers under the timber, jabbing hot splinters into his skin.  “I'm right here,” He babbled, straining. “You're going to be fine, Momma; I'm right here.”

But the wooden limb was just so _heavy._

He felt light-headed, whether from a lack of oxygen or exertion or pain he didn't know.  He couldn't get a steady grip; the floor was buckling beneath him, and the heat was melting the soles of his shoes.  He slid on the melting rubber, grappling with the rafter. Blisters were bubbling up on his skin. “It's going to be okay, Mom.  I'm right here; it's…” He couldn't breathe. “It's going to be okay.”

Logan couldn't _breathe._

With one heave, fueled by desperation and hysteria, he tried to lift the rafter, but his feet slipped out from underneath him.  He fell to the ground, but his hands were still stuck under the rafter. He was jerked to a stop halfway down, and his spine twisted with a sickening crunch.  He screamed, raw and desperate.

Large, gloved hands suddenly grabbed his arms, removing them from under the rafter.  A fireman picked him up effortlessly and slung him over their shoulder. “What are you going?”  He cried, trying to keep conscious through the white-hot pain radiating from his back. “My mother is under there!”

“There's nothing you can do for her now, kid.”

Everything after that was a blur.  Being thrown in the back of the ambulance.  The pain from his spine finally making him blackout.  Waking up to see Kaimi's tear-stained face. _Knowing_ before he was told that his mother hadn't made it out.

The funeral was held on a day far too beautiful for the occasion.  Kaimi stood next to Logan's wheelchair - the pain hadn't gone away, would never quite go away - and they clutched each other's hands.

Logan couldn't bring himself to look at her.  It was his fault. He should've talked his mother out of it.

Kaimi couldn't bring herself to look at him.  It was her fault. She never should have gotten Professor Abbott involved in such a risky story in the first place.

“I'm sorry,”  Kaimi whispered.

Logan, thinking that these were standard condolences given at a funeral, muttered back the standard ‘I’m sorry too.’

Kaimi, thinking that this was a condemnation of her actions, flinched.  Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

They gave each other a brief hug before they parted.  They exchanged the standard vows of comfort ‘I’m here if you need me’, ‘I’m just a phone call away’, ‘I’ll see you soon’, but none of them rang true.  They wouldn’t see each other in person for eight years, when Kaimi, face creased with fresh wrinkles and eyes shining with the prospect of rebellion, would show up at Logan’s door, as she had so many times before, with an idea just crazy enough to change the world.  Logan, as he had so many times before, would invite her in for mint tea and invite her to stay.

Long before that, however, a shattered Molotov cocktail and book of matches were found dumped against the side of the charred remnants of Logan’s childhood home - arson was the official verdict.

But no one was ever tried.  No one was ever found guilty.  Logan had no idea who had lit the match that killed his mother.

This is the way things are for people like them.

So he decided that they were all guilty.

One way or another, they'd all pay.

The fire had never quite left him.  Aside from his obvious injuries, a portion of it had broken off, embedding itself in his mind.  Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, he could feel it - the blisters bubbling up on his skin, the suffocation, the pain, but most of all, a single ember.  It had flown into his stomach during the fire, and smoldered there for years and years, sending waves of white-hot fury through him.

He carried his anger with him, quietly festering inside of him throughout the next eight years.  He got a job at the local planetarium, where he met a brilliant engineer who wanted to join NASA to see the stars.  A baker with powdered sugar dusted across his nose and a smile dancing across his face stopped into his physical therapist’s office to pass out cupcakes, and Logan felt his heart metaphorically leap from his chest.

He introduced them to each other, and he formed his family.  For a short time, he was almost able to put his anger behind him.  It was still there; it still burned his chest and woke him up in cold sweats at night as his back pulsed with agony and images of fire seared his mind.  He would lie there, trembling and in agony until the sun finally peaked in through his window and he got to escape his own mind until the sun set again. The anger was there, but it was manageable.

And then a brick was thrown through the window of Bake My Day, and a slur was sprayed across the side of the building.  And, suddenly, Logan was twenty-two again, watching as his family - what he loved most in the world - was threatened. Nightmares of the bakery burning to the ground haunted him.  This time, however, was different. This time he could stop it. This time, he could stop everything.

He embraced the flames.  He let the ember in his chest grow and swell until the fire wasn’t the thing that had damaged him; it _was_ him.  He came up with an idea just crazy enough to change the world.

He bought a burner phone and dialed a number he knew by heart, the number of one of the people he loved most in the world.  He wasn’t much for religion, but he prayed that when this was all over, the engineer would be able to forgive him.

His hands shook.  Static crackled down the line.  “Is this Virgil Sanders?” He asked, although he knew the answer.  A brief conversation followed before he finally got the courage to say what he needed to.  “I’m pleased to say you and I share a unique point of view. As such, I have an… interesting proposition to make.  I do hope you will hear me out.”

 

Now, Logan, thirty, and Virgil, twenty-nine, did as any wise humans should do in a time of trial, and they listened to Patton.  They talked it out. Each explained his side of the story in full - from Logan's backstory and The Truth to Virgil's entrapment in a vault with The Prince and the roses in his stomach through their experiences the night of the gala.  It was messy and dramatically non-sequential, but they managed to get most of the story down.

The baker bounced in excitement when Virgil mentioned his rooftop encounter with Calamity.  “Ooh! I know her! She broke up that riot that you and The Truth started, and she shot Kaimi and started flirting with her!”

“Okay, first of all: mood.”  A touch of humor lightened Virgil's eyes.  “But you two do know I haven't even met Kaimi yet, right?”

“We’ll get there eventually.”  Patton waved a hand airly. “Keep going.”

Virgil continued to run through his experience up until the night of the gala.  “So after Princey and I danced, I kinda invited him to join me in the villaining.”  He winced at the memory. “It did not go well.” He lifted his eyes to meet Logan’s.  

Cold fury settled behind those gray irises.  “And then you called me.”

Logan shifted in his chair.  “Yes, I believe I already apologized for my-”

Virgil slammed his hands own on the table, snarling.  “That doesn't change what you did! That doesn't change that you hurt me! That you lied to me! I… I trusted you, and I don't know if I can ever do that again without _thinking_ about those things that you said to me.  All of those things you made me do.” His thumb still throbbed from where he had picked it raw.

“I know,”  Logan said quietly. He stared at Virgil's hands with interest; they were easier to look at than the hurt flashing in his hollowed eyes.  “My actions were inexcusable, and I cannot - nor shall I - ask that you forgive me.” He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and gently took Virgil’s hand, methodically wrapping the fabric around his injured thumb.  “All I can say is that you are my best friend in this entire world, and that I greatly regret causing you all of this pain. I’m sorry.”

Virgil took his hand back, clutching it to his chest as his fingers worked over the fabric of the handkerchief.  “I don’t forgive you,” He said simply. “And I don’t know if I ever can.”

Logan didn’t deflate; he had anticipated this.  He would’ve hated himself no matter what the outcome of this conversation was.  “I understand,” He said, trying to breathe past the lump building in his throat.  He made to push his chair back. “Well, if that is all, I will do you a favor and remove mys-”

“Where do you think you’re going, nerd?”  Virgil cut him off.

Logan plopped back down in his seat (ignoring the lightning bolt of pain that shot up his spine) and eyed his partner-in-crime warily.

“I wasn’t finished,”  Virgil continued. “Yes, what you did was inexcusable and yes, it wasn’t okay, and yes, I’m not okay-”  even in this state is was difficult for him not to add “(I Promise)” “-and no, what you did will never be okay!”

“Virgil,”  Logan sighed.  “If you intend on continuing to ‘roast’ me, I really don’t see the point of-”

“Shut up, I’m doing a thing.”  Virgil cut him off again. “What I was saying is that you did a really shitty thing.  It’ll never be okay. What you did will _never_ be okay.”  He took a deep breath, calming himself.  “But maybe, given enough time and a sufficient amount of groveling on your part and a _whole_ lot of graveling to Patton on both of our parts-”

Patton interrupted with a ‘you know that’s right.’

“-then this...” He waved a hand in a circle, encompassing the three of them together.  “This whole family thing might be okay. Because I really want this to be okay.”

Logan nodded, blinking rapidly.  “As do I.”

“Besides,”  Virgil continued, the smallest, gingerest of smiles curling his lips.  “Psychological damage aside… I kinda really like being a villain.”

Patton glared at him.  “You what now?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

Virgil winced.  “Am putting aside psychological damage?”  He hazarded.

“Nice try there, kiddo.”

“I do my best.”  He refocused on Logan.  “I want a full explanation through.”

“Of course,”  Logan responded promptly.  “What do you want to know?”

“Mostly about the gala.  How did you actually place the call?  I was standing right next to you when it came through.”

Logan shrugged one shoulder, wincing when it pulled at his spine the wrong way.  “You were rather preoccupied being overcome with envy while Roman and Ms. Darnelle danced.  I merely slipped my hand into my pocket, pressed the speed dial, and said a quick instruction while you were glaring elsewhere.”

“I was standing right beside you through!”  Virgil protested.

Logan arched an eyebrow.  “Do forgive me, but you tend to be a bit… obsessive when enveloped in your thoughts.  I suspect whatever I said would’ve fallen on deaf ears.”

Patton snorted.  “Yeah. Remember that time we all went to comicon, and you spent eight hours straight working on your Moriarty co-play?”

“Cosplay,”  Virgil corrected.

“Bless you.”

Logan hit his head on the table with a thunk.  “Patton, we’ve gone over this.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Lo.”  Patton winked at Virgil over their datemate’s lowered head.

“And…”  The astronomer raised his head at the strange inflection in Virgil’s words.  The villain was clutching the handkerchief, tightly weaving it around his fingers.  “Why did you say _that_ to me?  I lo-” He faltered; it was true, yet the words actually falling from his lips made it real.  It meant that there was no backing out, no careful division of the world into black and white.  It meant way more than three little words should ever be able to.

He clenched his jaw.  “I really care about him. I want to be with him, and you tell me that we aren’t meant to be together?”

A shroud of shame dropped over Logan, wrapping itself snugly over his shoulders.  “That was wrong of me,” He confessed quietly. “It has long been one of my faults that I… I am much less apt with emotional input than I should be.”  The edge of his mouth quirked up in a sad attempt at humor. “You know first-hand that it is difficult for me to take the feelings of others into account.  Walking into the gala, I both distrusted and disliked Roman. I failed to take into account how deep your feelings had grown. I believed that removal what I saw to be nothing more than a shallow attraction would ameliorate the difficulty of the situation on you, as well as spur you on to take more… ruthless actions.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“I arranged the machine in your lab in advance.  I correctly anticipated your reaction, but far underestimated the severity of it. For that, among many other things, I was wrong.”  Logan had been staring steadily at the wood grain embedded in the table, but he now dared to dart a glance up at Virgil. “How did it work, by the way?”

Virgil suddenly realized that Logan didn’t even know how the Abilities Eraser worked.  He was silent for a moment, looking at the astronomer. Logan might not even know what horrors he had instructed Virgil to unleash.

A vicious smile slowly spread over The Savior’s face.  “Perfectly.”

A grin rose in kind across U.N. Owen’s mouth.  “Ideal.”

Patton blinked.  “How well did what work?”

The villains both froze, staring at each other with panicked eyes.

 _Do we lie to them or…?_  Virgil asked with a widening of his eyes.

 _Nothing good has come of that particular course of action thus far,_  Logan stated with a slight grimace.

 _Yeah, but we aren’t exactly the ‘good guys’, remember?_  Virgil protested with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 _While a valid assessment,_  Logan agreed with a slight tilt of his head. _I am unsure if-_

“Guys,”  Patton interrupted dryly.   _We’ve all been friends for eight years.  I can do the silent conversation thing too. See?_  They asked with an exasperated huff and a head swivel.

The villains came to another silent agreement.

“Patton,”  Virgil started, taking a deep breath.  “So, um, the thing is that - well, it’s kinda an interesting story - I got a call from Logan - but I didn’t know that it was him at the time - for this job; and that’s actually how I got stuck in the vault with Roman!  Because, um, you see there was this thing he wanted me to build where-”

“I commissioned Virgil to build a machine that can steal a person’s Abilities.”

“Dude,”  Virgil glared at his interruptor.  “I was trying to ease them into it.”

Patton was stock-still for a moment, but their face slowly turned to view each villain.  “You did what now?”

Virgil gulped.  “I built a thing that takes Abilities and can give them to someone else.  I poked it with a stick, and a rat started meowing.”

Patton pursed their lips and nodded their head slowly.  “You’ve cat to be kitten me right meow.”

A half-choked laugh escaped Virgil’s lips while Logan threw his head back in exasperation and immediately regretted it.

“Okay, on that high note, I think this conversation is over,”  Patton made to stand up. “I’m going to go back to the bakery and work my _buns_ off.  Who’s with me?”

“One more thing.”  Virgil held up a hand then paused, weighing his words before he spoke.  “Logan, I just don’t understand how you _could_ have done all this.”

Logan frowned.  “I’ve told you, Virgil.  I, too, have harbored an aggressive rancor against society for a very long time as the result of my mother being murd-”

“Yeah, I get that part,”  Virgil interrupted, waving a hand at him.  “What I don’t get is the actual logistics of it.  How did you know that Missy was going to propose? Where’d you get all of the money to fund both me and your newspaper?”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “That’s precisely what I keep being hindered from explaining, due to these countless interruptions.”

Patton shot him a glare, and Logan winced, muttering an apology.

“You are quite correct in your assertion that I couldn’t fund all of these rebellious endeavors by myself.  Afterall, I am merely the owner of a planetarium and currently have a roommate who isn’t paying rent.”

Virgil stared at him for a minute.  “What?”

“Ah, right.”  Logan lightly smacked his own forehead with the heel of his hand.  “I quite forgot to inform you that Kaimi Alvi, whom you know as my former and one of my current best friends as well as my cohort on The Truth, is living with me after she quit her job.”

Virgil blinked slowly and decided that he wasn’t going to get into that right now.  “Got it.”

Patton huffed.  “You were saying, Lo?”

“Right.”  Logan cleared his throat.  “There is no way that I would have the financial backing to sustain all of this for such a prolonged period of time.  It is true that, in the beginning, this was entirely my endeavor; however, as the added financial burden of running a newspaper was added, another backer approached me and conveyed news of the impending proposal.”

Virgil let his head flop onto the dark oak table.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” He groaned, the sound muffled.

Patton leaned forward, curiosity shining in their blue eyes.  “Who is it?”

“Well.”  The astronomer's mouth twisted wryly.  “That’s the odd part. I don’t actually know.”

Virgil couldn’t help but be a bit vindicated.  “Now you know how it feels,” He muttered morosely.

“But!”  Logan interrupted.  “I did send them a message… asking them to meet us here.”

 

Missy Darnelle, looking very small and very scared, sat huddled at the kitchen counter of her apartment, swirling around her drink with a neon green plastic straw.  Every so often, she brought it to her lips, as if to drink, but she always put it immediately back down.

Her hair hung limply around her face, and her eyes were large and shadowed; they darted around constantly, as if fearful of yet another attack.

Roman watched her quietly.  “Missy, are you not going to drink that?”

She looked down at the cup in her hand and startled, seemingly surprised it was still there.  “Oh,” She said numbly. “Right.”

There was still a spot of congealed blood on her forehead.  When it healed, she’d have a spiderweb of scars fanning out over her forehead, remnants of its impact with her mirror.

She was no longer perfect, if she ever had been in the first place.

“Do you want a sip?”  Missy suddenly asked, shoving the cup at him.  He eyed her strangely then took a gulp to placate her.

He grimaced and pushed the drink back towards her.  “Ugh, it’s so bitter. What is that, almonds?”

“No sugar added, organic, free-range, non GMO, California almond milk.”  She shrugged and put the straw back in her mouth.

Roman took a moment to wonder how almonds could be free-range.  He shook his head, moving back to the subject at hand. “Missy, stop deflecting.  I’m breaking up with you, okay? We aren’t good for each other. I don’t want to be with you, and I doubt you truly want to be with me, or else you would have treated me better.”

“My love.”  She set her cup down with soft clink as she frowned.  “Are you alright?” She leaned forward, harsh lines of her frightened expression softening into something far more familiar.  “You aren’t acting like yourself.”

Roman’s insides suddenly went hot and cold at the same time, the two sides chasing each other until there was a hurricane roaring inside of his stomach.  “You’re right,” He said tersely. “I’m not acting like ‘Your Love’.  I'm not 'your' anything.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “I’m acting like Roman.”

He suddenly met her gaze with a challenging stare.  “What’s my last name?”

Missy blinked.  “What?”

“You heard me.”

After a beat too long, Missy laughed.  “It’s Garcia, of course.”

His lip curled up into a snarl.  “And how long would it have taken you to remember that without reading my mind?”

Her silence was answer enough.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.  “That’s what I thought.”

“My darling, what is this?”  Missy appealed to him. “I know you must've been just as frightened as I was, but this isn't how you act-”

“No!”  He snapped, cutting her off.  “You don’t get to tell me how I should or shouldn’t act anymore.”  He rose from his chair, backing away from her. “You don’t get to tell me who I am.”

“So what?”  She cried, slinking into herself, looking small and defenseless.  “You’re just going to leave me helpless? I’m a target, you know. Because of _you._  Aren’t you supposed to be a hero?  You’re just going to leave an innocent woman?”

He snarled.  “You’re hardly innocent.”  He paused and took a deep breath, trying to get enough air in to calm the storm raging in his stomach.  “But you are right about one thing: I’m a hero.” He looked at her, suddenly dispassionate. “I’m enough of a hero to save everyone, no matter how undeserving.”

He stared her down, opening his mind as wide as possible so she could _feel_ his conviction.  “I’m done with you, Missy.”  Inside of his pocket, his fingers ran over the stim toy Virgil had given him.

Missy’s eyes darkened.  “You can't honestly believe that he _loves_ you.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.  “I know that he’s better for me than you are.  I know that I… that I…”

He still couldn’t say it.  He was still so desperately afraid of those three little words.

“Roman,”  Missy tutted gently.  “That’s not what I meant.  I meant that you can’t honestly believe that he loves you, of all people.”  She tilted her head, blonde hair falling over her pale, sloping shoulders in matted waves.  She stung Roman’s eyes with her beauty. “Honestly, he can do so much better.” Her now-imperfect face creased with concern.  “You can’t even tell someone that you love them.”

“And whose fault is that?”  Roman snapped. “You expect me to put up with years of torment and… and _abuse_ by you and not come out a little scarred?”  His lip curled. “I’m done with you.”

She shook her head resolutely.  “I can’t have this conversation right now.  I need to take a shower.”

He simply looked away, firm in his decision.  “Fine. Twenty minutes.”

She tossed her head - the effect somewhat diminished by the dirtiness of her hair - and flounced from the room.

Roman pressed a hand into his stomach.  How had he never noticed the way she made him feel?  Sick, weak, drained - she was a vampire that fed on all positivity, leaving only a thin, withered husk.

He stalked to the hall closet, pulling out a suitcase he had never had the chance to use.  He had bought it at the start of their relationship. He had been alight with the prospect of adventure, of exploring the world with his love at his side.  Missy, however, had just giggled delicately when he had told her of his plan. “Traveling?” She had said, blue eyes blinking innocently. “Why would you need to do that, my love?”  She had slipped her arms around his neck, smiling. “All you could ever need his right here.”

He swallowed thickly, adam’s apple bobbing, and forcefully wrenched his mind away from that particular memory.  He stalked into thei- his old bedroom, throwing open the suitcase and heaving entire armfuls of clothes inside. Jeans, jackets, t-shirts, Prince uniforms - garments were indiscriminately hurled inside.  He picked up an entire breau of drawers and held it upside-down over the case, shaking until he deemed he had enough socks and underwear to last for a while.

Clothing accomplished, Roman swept back into the living room, scanning for anything he wanted to bring with him.  He was never coming back after this.

He didn’t care about the still-trashed furniture or the broken electronics, but he stifled an unhappy cry when he saw that the one shelf of books Missy had let him keep was broken in half.  He dropped to his knees, carefully sorting through the old tomes. He gently picked up his _Early Works of Shakespeare_ and _Classic Poetry,_ resisting the tightness in his chest when he saw that his _Complete Works of Lord Byron_ had been cracked down the spine.  He pawed through his dear companions, clutching as many of the novels to his chest as he could before depositing them in the suitcase.

He made another sweep of the apartment after that, but it was to no avail.  There had never been much of him in this place, anyway.

He glanced at the wall clocked and frowned.  Missy had been in the bathroom for almost an hour.  It wasn’t unusual for her to spend a million years fussing over hear appearance, but he wanted to make his final remarks and leave as soon as possible.  Every minute longer he spent in his place, the sickness in his stomach grew.

“Missy?”  He rapped lightly on the door to the bathroom.  “Missy, can I come in?”

A soft murmuring came from inside, which he interpreted as a yes.

Roman walked in just as Missy pulled a towel away from her face.   He gasped, stumbling back. He tried to speak, but his voice absolutely refused to work.

“Roman!”  She scolded him, frowning.  She turned from him with a theatrical sigh, sliding a baby blue contact into her yellow eye and spreading foundation over the scales on her cheek.  She caught his eye in the mirror as she sponged on concealer. “Don't you know that it's rude to walk in on a woman while she's changing?” She adjusted the straps of her black dress, turning back and forth to admire herself in the mirror.

“You… You’re…”  Roman stammered.  Nausea welled up in his throat.

The night makeup, the obsession with appearances, the skill with special effects makeup, the times Roman had thought her eyes looked green or her cheek looked jagged - suddenly they all made sense.

“Doctor Deceit, yes.”  She finished powdering her face and snapped the compact shut with a click.  She sashayed past him, wrinkling her nose as if he were something particularly repulsive.  “Honestly, you are rather slow on the uptake, darling.”

“Stop!”  The Prince demanded, blurring past her to bar the door, ignoring the pounding in his head.  “How dare you do this? Betray me? Fool me? Manipulate me?”

She arched an eyebrow.  “If I were you, I’d be less concerned with the villain and more concerned with what the villain gave you to drink earlier.”  She smiled gently. “You can be poisoned, after all.”

Bitter almonds.  Oh.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his rapidly purpling cheek for the last time.  “Goodbye, my love.”

The ache in Roman’s stomach suddenly made much more sense.  The world seemed to blur around him, twisting and dilating. His knees gave out from under him, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.  He heard Missy’s voice as if it came from a great distance.

“I recommend you try to find an antidote in time.”  She delicately stepped over Roman’s crumpled form on her needle-thin stilettos.  “I’d love to stick around, but…” She sighed, sashaying out the door as Roman felt his throat tighten.  “I have a business meeting to attend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deceit? Who's she? Never heard of her.
> 
> The real plot twist here is that I added another chapter to the outline
> 
> Hey, my pals. Do you like Powerless? Do you like fanfiction? Well, I certainly hope so, because otherwise I have no idea what you're doing here. I am pleased to tell you, lover-of-fanfics, that the lovely iiSlytherin_galii on wattpad has written a FANTASTIC fanfiction of Powerless! Please go check it out; it's honestly incredible  
> https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/151359076/write/587316418
> 
> OH BUT THE LOVE DOESN'T STOP THERE  
> In addition to thecrimsoncodex 's fic Wounded, which you can find in related works, there are many more artists than I ever would have suspected who have contributed to the Powerless universe.
> 
> @imasmallchild (tumblr) made these awesome sims https://impatentpending.tumblr.com/post/174775565020/okay-so-sorry-for-the-bad-quality-photos-but-i
> 
> @virgil-in-a-necktie (tumblr) did some super cool logos  
> http://virgil-in-a-necktie.tumblr.com/post/174893024351
> 
> @agayfairy (tumblr) drew a FANTASTIC picture of The Savior and The Prince  
> https://agayfairy.tumblr.com/post/174257908197/ahhh-i-really-love-impatentpending-fic
> 
> @woah-fanart (you know what, just assume all of these are tumblr) created a Wonderfully sassy Virgil whom I love and adore  
> https://woah-fanart.tumblr.com/post/174365571349/i-recently-read-a-really-cute-story-by
> 
> @royallyanxious made a couple of awesome moodboards  
> https://royallyanxious.tumblr.com/post/173483374374/wonderful-amazing-genius-right-from-amazing-fic  
> https://royallyanxious.tumblr.com/post/173483486629/star-crossed-prinxiety-from-powerless-requested-by
> 
> @thecrimsoncodex drew the Sandman (Remy), the cutest lil supervillain I have ever seen  
> https://thecrimsoncodex.tumblr.com/post/173846946254/mr-sandman
> 
> AND OF COURSE, THE FABULOUS PERSON WHO STARTED IT ALL! prinxiety.draw (instagram) or Misa is forever in my heart for being the first person to ever draw fanart for Powerless. I LOVE YOU, MISA!!!  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BhKpeT4Bost/
> 
> All of these artists are fantastic so please go shower them with love and affection
> 
> If anyone else out there wants to draw or make sims or paint or do a moodboard or make a playlist or literally ANYTHING for Powerless, please show it to me on tumblr at @impatentpending . I'll be so happy to see it!
> 
> Also, huge shout outs to @mossystars and @neonb-fly on tumblr. They know why ;)
> 
> And another shout-out to my sister for taking this long to realize that New Psyche and every place inside of it is named after a part of the brain or a psychological concept.
> 
> And, as always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO


	18. Local Villain Convention Definitely Goes Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> -graphic descriptions of pain (Skip "the world was pulsing around" through "he experimentally curled"  
> -vomiting (skip "his throat burned" through "he lay there" and the paragraph starting with "he doubled over"  
> -mentions of murder and actual murder (skip the paragraph starting with "then Doctor Deceit pushed")  
> -body horror (skip paragraph starting with "Deceit watched with vague interest")
> 
> I like to keep it cheerful :D
> 
> Please tell me if I missed anything!

“Patton, you need to leave,”  Virgil said instantly.

The person in question looked at him, startled.  “And why would I do a silly thing like that, kiddo?”

“Because we don't know who this person coming is, and there's no way I want you here when we find out.”  He looked at them pleadingly. “They could be dangerous.”

Patton quirked an eyebrow.  “Like you two are dangerous?”

Logan chimed in.  “I'm inclined to agree with Virgil here, Patton. This unknown addition to our group is an unplanned for variable.”

“You're the one that invited them!”  Patton protested.

“Granted.”  Logan inclined his head.  “That was, however, when I was under the impression that this meeting would be conducted solely between Virgil and myself.”  He took the baker’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “However loathe I am to see you leave-”

“-you love to watch them go?”  Virgil interrupted, wiggling his eyebrows.

“-I would rest much easier knowing that you're out of any immediate danger.”  Logan continued, rolling his eyes at the villain.

Still, Patton hesitated.  “I… I just don't want this to be another secret you guys keep from me.”

Virgil softened.  “It won't be; I promise. We'll tell you everything later, okay?”

Patton nodded slowly.  “Promise?”

Logan squeezed their hand.  “Promise.”

“Promise,”  Virgil echoed.

“Guess it’s time for me to…”

“Please refrain.”

 _“Book_ it.”

“Why.”  Logan groaned, but a smile danced across his face when the baker leaned down to give him a kiss.  They kissed Virgil’s forehead, waved, and then left the library.

“They’ll be fine, right?”  Virgil looked anxiously in the direction they had vanished.

“Indubitably,”  Logan assured him.  “At this present juncture, we need to prepare ourselves for the imminent arrival of our guest.”

“Yeah, what is up with that, Lo?”  Anxiety dug its claws into Virgil’s sides, forcing heat into his tone.

The astronomer shifted self-consciously, adjusting his glasses.  “A certain financial burden was placed on me, as I explained. I was contacted via e-mail one day that a sponsor was interested in helping me with The Truth.  They also informed me by the same methodology that Missy intended on proposing. As far as I know, they know of no villany.”

Virgil just stared at him incredulously.  “So you just trusted some rando who told you they wanted to give you money to fund your sketchy underground attempt to reform society?”

Logan arched an eyebrow.  “That is also literally what you did.”

Virgil took a deep breath and leveled a finger at him, pausing dramatically for a moment.  (He had clearly been spending too much time with Roman.) “You got me there.” He exhaled, bringing his hand down to twist his fingers around each other.  “Still, I never claimed to be the smart one. That’s your job, remember?”

Logan preened.  “If I didn’t, I would surely lose the title.”

Suddenly a soft, bell-like voice interrupted them.  “I hope this seat isn't taken.”

Their heads snapped towards the sound, and they froze, staring with wide eyes at their new companion.

Missy Darnelle had entered the building.

  


The world was pulsing around Roman Garcia.  His body was compressed; every atom clashed into each other before his body expanded. His molecules were being torn apart then flung out across the universe.  The space where he was fairly sure his head was pounded. His throat burned; he vaguely registered that he was about to throw up.

He could barely muster the concentration it took to roll onto his side.  He heaved, tears forcing their way out of his eyes from the pain of acid clawing at his throat.  He gagged, trying to breathe, but the contents of his stomach forced their way out of him. The putrid stench hit him, and he collapsed onto his back, boneless.

He lay there, in the middle of his wrecked apartment with his own vomit congealing next to him on the floor.  The chilled tile of the bathroom floor was growing uncomfortably warm under his body.

He felt the tiniest bit better having expelled what remained of the poison, but still far too much of it flowed through his blood.  It wrapped around his heart, his lungs, his nerves, constricting them.

The poison hadn't diminished his powers in the slightest; it'd just destroyed his control of them.  He tried to dig his fingers into the floor to roll onto his knees, but he squeezed too hard and the tiles shattered under his grip.  With a herculean effort, he flung himself up from the floor, but he underestimated his force and ended up slamming himself against the bathroom wall.

Roman groaned weakly, grimacing at the clammy feeling of his own skin.  It grated against itself. He could feel every single minute detail of his own body as it waged war on him.  He could hear the cells inside of his body bursting apart with sickening pops. His knees buckled. He collapsed once more.

There was a fly in the apartment two floors below him.  He could hear it beating itself against the glass, trying to get outside into the cool, blue sky.  To anyone else it was a simple tap, so soft as to be indiscernible. To him, it was as if someone was beating a bass drum inside of his skull.  

**BANG BANG BANG**

Ugh, why didn’t it just give up?  There wasn’t a point in trying to get out.  All it was doing by bumping itself instantly against the glass was bashing itself to death.  There was no point. The harder it tried to survive, to be free, the quicker it would die.

**BANG BANG BANG**

Roman’s head pounded in time with the insect’s increasingly frantic motions.  It needed to quit already, to just give up. There wasn't a point in struggling. There was never a point.

**BANG BANG BANG**

Roman managed to scoot a few inches to his left, sighing as the cool marble hit his fevered skin. Even that simple motion, however, made a fresh sheen of sweat coat his body.  He lay there, cheek pressed into the floor so hard that he could see fireworks behind his eyelid, just trying to catch his breath.

**BANG BANG BANG**

This must’ve been what death felt like.  This helplessness. This waiting as his own body tormented him until the end.  This pain.

Roman didn’t want to die.

His bones were jelly, his lungs were pumice stone, his blood was poison, and he was on death’s doorstep.  He didn't want to die. Heat prickled at the corners of his eyes.

He didn’t want to die.

**BANG BANG BANG**

The gritty, slimy feeling of his own tears against his skin was unbearable, but he didn't even have the strength to wipe them away.

**BANG BANG BAN-**

The ruckus from the fly’s freedom attempt abruptly cut off.  

Silence.

The woman who lived in the apartment two floors below had opened the window.  He listened to the soft buzzing of the insect’s wings as it flew out into the endless blue of the heavens.

“Alright, my friend,”  The hero muttered. “Let's see if I can join you.”

He experimentally curled his fingers, accidentally driving them through several of the marble tiles.  His limbs were growing numb, as if he were being iced over, starting with the extremities.

Roman managed to crane his neck to see his legs, sprawled out underneath him.  He concentrated on twitching, just a twitch. If he could do that, maybe, maybe he could move.  He stared at his left leg, almost crying with relief when it jumped.

His right leg, however, didn’t move.  It was entirely encased in the invisible ice growing like a tumor inside of him.  He could feel the coldness spreading.

Roman placed his hands flat against the ground and pushed as hard as he could.  He smacked his head against the ceiling, but managed to land more or less upright.  He started to shuffle through the door, ignoring the way his right leg dragged behind him like a dead weight, the way his fingers were slowly frosting over with the ice.

He tried to clench his hand into a first, but he could not.  Maybe that was for the best. Surely he would shatter into a million pieces if he tried.

Panting, he managed to drag himself over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.  He eyed the drop to the ground - fourteen hundred feet. He smashed through the window and fell without hesitation.

Luckily, he didn’t land on anyone.

There were civilians on the street, some of who immediately pulled out their phones and started snapping photos of their prince.  Others simply swooned.

Roman blurred away, trying to hide.  Most civilians were well-meaning, but they ultimately proved to be a hindrance.  Besides, the last thing that he needed was for it to get out that he could be poisoned.

His superspeed was hard to control.  His numbed limbs flew around haphazardly, and he kept knocking the corners off of buildings.

He couldn't go to a hospital.  They'd have to do a blood test to see what poison was spreading ice through his veins, but he was invincible.  His skin could be pierced by nothing, not even the sterile needles of a doctor giving an antidote.

He slammed into the side of a building, pressing himself into the Roman-shaped crater to keep from crumpling.  Think, think! Where could he go?

He didn't know any doctors. He had never had to been patched up after a fight.  The other time he had been so affected was a few years ago, when Roman had decided that gas station sushi sounded like a marvelous idea.  That, however, had just been food poisoning, completely ameliorated by a few days rest.

Whatever this toxin was, it clearly was designed for fatality.  The ice was starting to creep over his chest. He didn’t have much time left.

He doubled over again, dry heaving.  He gagged, wiping a thick strand of saliva off of his chin.

Help.

Roman needed help, or he was going to die.

The sunlight was blinding him as his senses kicked into overdrive, trying to pick up on as much of the world as possible before he left it.  

He squinted his eyes, trying to hide from the unrelenting beams.

Then, suddenly, he saw it.

Hope.

His body was so unwieldy that it took him several tries to get into the laboratory.

Medulla Labs had been destroyed by The Sandman two days ago (Only two days ago?), but every reputable business in New Psyche had supervillain insurance and at least one backup location.

A woman with a long rope of a braid was peering intently into a microscope, muttering biological jargon to herself as she tapped her ruby-painted nails on the table.

“Help,”  Roman rasped out, staggering forward. His body was excruciatingly heavy.  He tried to place a hand on the lab table for support but accidentally knocked off a few beakers and buckled the metal.

The woman looked up, startled. She immediately swung into a defensive stance, sharp eyes narrowing.  “How'd ya get in here?” She demanded. “Ain't nobody sup’osed-”

She cut herself off as Roman buckled to his knees.  For the first time, she fully registered his waxy complexion, his bloodshot eyes, his sallow coloring.  Then she realized who he was past his deathly pallor. “The Prince?!” Calamity swore under her breath, rushing to his side.  “Son of a motherless goat, what happen’d to ya?”

“Help,”  He moaned as the world started to fade around him.  The ice was everywhere, burrowing into his bones, frosting over his skin, wrapping around his lungs.  “Please, help me.”

  


“Ms. Darnelle.”  Logan recovered first, flashing his teeth at her.  “What an unexpected pleasure. I’m afraid, however, that we’re waiting on a… friend of ours.”

She tilted her head, smiling beautifically.  “Friend? Oh, how nice of you to think of me so amiably.”

Logan blinked.  “You mean to say-”

“Yes, Logan.”  She delicately sat down, folding her hands in her lap.  “You look much better than the last time I saw you. Have those cracked ribs gotten any better?”

Nerves began to edge at the astronomer.  “I haven't seen you since the gala. We've never spoken before.”

She hummed noncommittally.  “Not like this, no.” Then, suddenly she was different.  A man with no discernable features sat before them.

Blink.

Black hair.

Blink.

No hair.

Blink.

Gray eyes.

Blink.

Green eyes.

The air seemed to crystalize inside of Logan’s lungs.  “You.”

“Me,”  Missy - for she was Missy again - agreed mildly.

Virgil looked back and forth between the two of them.  “Am I missing something here?” He snarled at Missy. “And I thought that your Ability was mind-reading, not shapeshifting.”

Logan swallowed deeply.  “This would be the unknown person who paid me a visit in jail.”

“Yes.  And I am Missy, Abilities and all.  That’s all you need to know.” Her form shifted again, blurring and changing even as they looked at her (him?) greenbrowngrayblue eyes smiled at them from a roundnarrowpaledark face.  “Missy Darnelle,” She said with a deephighsmoothrough voice. “Is not all I am, however.” They blinked and suddenly she was Missy again. She felt at the edge of her jaw, and Virgil stifled a cry of horror as she peeled away part of her face.

Logan’s heart tried to beat its way out of his chest and to an escape as his incredulous eyes took in the patches of scales crawling over her face.  “Doctor Deceit.” He swallowed deeply, pressing his hands into his legs to cease their shaking. “You’re Doctor Deceit.”

Mimicry, Virgil suddenly remembered with a jolt of fear.  Doctor Deceit’s Ability was mimicry, Abilities and all of those she (or ‘he’ previously) had killed.

Before Missy, there had been a string of others.  Dorian and Dimitri and Elizabeth and Grant and Hugo and so many, going so far back that she had forgotten.  Her memories were worn-out things, like the face of a penny smoothed by touching it ever and over. She had tried so desperately to remember all of those that she had been, those who had been Deceit, that she risked losing whatever remained of the original.  If there was anything.

She just smiled.  “So, where’s my machine?”

  


Katrina “Calamity” Santos had been having a pretty good day before the world's most powerful man decided to stagger through the doorway of her lab with death nipping at his heels.  She had exchanged good morning texts with a certain lovely reporter, who was veering ever-closer to official girlfriend territory.

Katrina actually ate a breakfast that didn't come straight out of a wrapper, she hadn't been late to work for once, and, best of all, the majority of her coworkers had chosen to work on the west-side location of Medulla Labs instead of with her in the East.  This meant she was blissfully alone, bopping out to _ELO_ over her earbuds as she worked on something that was definitely not a part of her job description.

And then, of course, The Prince went and got himself poisoned and stumbled into her lab, knocking over a few months worth of research as he did.  Because Calamity wasn't allowed to have nice days.

She swore, flipping her braid over her shoulder as she rushed to his collapsed form.  “What happened?” She demanded again.

“Help,”  He rasped out again, like a broken record.  Then again, she didn't reckon that he was quite functioning at full capacity at the moment.

She quickly cleared a lab table, shoving equipment to the side.  The vigilante knelt at the hero's side and stretched her arms out.

Recognizing what she intended to do, Roman shook his head weakly.  “Too heavy… You can’t…”

Katrina just quirked an eyebrow, sliding her hands under him.  “I’ll be listenin’ to ya when ya don’t look like ten miles of bad road.”  Slowly, she stood up, holding him in her arms. She caught his duly surprised look and winked.  

“Ya ain’t the only one ‘round here with a bit of muscle.” Grunting, she stepped forward and gently laid him down on the table.  He sighed as the cool metal hit his feverish skin.

“Bless ya heart,”  She muttered, stepping back to him in fully.  “What happened?”

“Poison,”  He rasped out.

The vigilante startled.  “Ya can get poisoned?”

Roman shot her a glare.

“Right, sorry.  Not really the thing to focus on right now.”  She cleared her throat, snapping into business mode.  “We just need a blood sample and… aw, shoot. That ain't gonna work, is it?”

The hero shook his head weakly.

She swore under her breath, twisting the end of her braid around her fingers.  “A’ight, we just need ta know what type…” Roman's eyes were starting to flutter closed, and she hauled back, slapping him across the face without hesitation.

He made a noise of surprise, shock temporarily clearing his head.  “What was that for?!” He cried.

“Doncha even dare think about goin’ to sleep on me, güey.”  Calamity narrowed her eyes. “I don't even wanna think about what the paperwork is like for lettin’ The Prince die.”

“Qué amable eres,” Roman muttered sarcastically, trying to flex his hand, as if he couldn't quite feel his fingers.

“I'm a fucking national treasure,”  Calamity drawled. “But more importantly, I'm ‘bout to save your life. No me insolencia.”  She narrowed her eyes. “Now tell me what the heck you drank.”

“Milk…”  He muttered.  “Almond milk.”

“Darlin’, almond milk don't make people-”  She cut herself off as he convulsed, dry heaving. Nausea, loss of feeling in limbs, clammy complexion, almost loss of consciousness, almonds - she hissed a sharp breath in through her teeth.  “Bitter almonds?”

Roman nodded weakly.

Her jaw worked.  “Good news is I know what gotcha.  Bad news it's cyanide. Other bad news is that we don't have any sodium thiosulfate.”

He groaned, pressing his clammy cheek against the cool metal.  “Is this where you tell me I'm dead in an hour?”

She was already turned away from him, practically a blur as she grabbed miscellaneous vials and jars.  “Naw, more like fifteen minutes. Good thing you have superspeed, or you’d be a goner.” She held up a vial reading sulfur hydroxide, swirling the liquid inside.  “Six moles,” The biologist muttered, uncapping it and tossing it over her shoulder at a beaker. It tipped over perfectly, draining into the container. She shook out yellow powder that reeked of rotten eggs onto a weight, spinning around and dumping it into the beaker with one hand and lighting a burner with the other.  “Lucky for you,” She called over her shoulder, situating the beaker over the flame. “I ain't half bad at this whole chemistry thing.”

Through increasingly fogged eyes, Roman watched as Katrina stirred the concoction, turning up the flame until he was sure she was trying to burn both of them to death.  She was scraping a white titrate from the bottom, mixing it into a glass of water when his chest froze over completely. He tried to gasp, but only managed to make a wet smacking sound.

She was rushing across the room towards him, antidote in hand, but everything seemed to slow.  Roman was suddenly aware he could hear his own heartbeat slowing, until almost nothing of it was left.  The frantic drumming had softened into the slightest tapping.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

He was just so cold.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

He tried to shiver, but his strength had truly deserted him now.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

It was so, so cold.

_Tap, tap, tap, ta-_

  
  


A jolt of panic shot through Virgil.  “What machine?” He blurted before seriously considering the implausibility of playing dumb to a mindreader.

Missy arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, electing not to dignify that comment with a response.

Logan tried.  “I'm afraid your presence here is no longer necessary, Ms. Darnelle.  You have already shown your aversion to The Truth. If you would kindly depart, I believe that would turn out in everyone's favor.”

“I'm going this for everyone’s favor,”  Missy sighed. “There's a reason for this all, you see: all I want is peace. When I sensed an inkling of your plan, Mr. Abbott, well, it was simply too marvelous of an opportunity to pass up on.”

“Then why”- Logan was trembling, though from fear or rage he did not know - “did you lock me up?”

She frowned, the perfect picture of despondency if not for the macabre scales on her cheek and spiderweb of scars across her forehead. “I must be honest, the whole newspaper thing was more of an ‘in’ for me than anything else.”  She tittered.

“I must congratulate you; I did not expect it to become so popular.  I merely wished to help you and Mr. Sanders on your mission. A machine that can take away Abilities” - her eyes glittered the way the sun glitters off of a bejeweled dagger - “breathtakingly brilliant, sir.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably.  “The device is only an…,” He faltered.  “An unpleasant means to an ends.”

A cold thing halfway between shame and stubbornness settled into the space between Virgil's ribs.  “What I do with my machine is none of your business.”

She just smiled.  “I'd beg to differ, but that's not where we're going now.”  She fluffed her hair, smoothing it behind her ears when she was done.  “I was onboard with the whole Truth, but then that nasty riot broke out.”  She sighed. “And I knew it had to stop. I meant what I said to you, Logan. People can't handle so many conflicting opinions.”

“Do you actually work for Governor Wyrick?”  Logan asked coldly. “Or is that just another or your lies?”

“Oh, I do.”  She nodded. “But I don't take orders; it's mostly to get on his payroll.” Missy arched an eyebrow.  “You didn't think that I spent all day at home doing my makeup and being awful, did you?”

Virgil started pointedly thinking of other things because, yes, that was exactly what he had thought.

“Honestly, I think he's forgotten about me,”  She mused. “Rather difficult to remember someone when you're never quite sure what they look like.”

“Why are you doing all of this?”  Logan demanded.

She just laughed.  “I don’t owe you two an explanation.  You’re going to do what I want either way.”

  


“Oh, ya better not!”  Calamity cried as The Prince’s chest stilled.  She pressed two fingers to his neck. Only the faintest trail of a pulse thrummed under his tawny-brown skin. She tilted his head back, pouring the aqueous sodium thiosulfate down his throat.  “Drink this.”

She pressed an ear to his chest, and felt a knot on her stomach unravel as she heard the faint sounds of swallowing.  Katrina pulled back, watching anxiously as some of the color returned to his cheeks. She grabbed a metal tray, holding it in front of his open mouth.  She almost sobbed in relief when a small cloud of fog appeared. She would so get fired if she let The Prince die.

“Imma name all o’ my new gray hairs after you,”  Calamity muttered sardonically, pushing Roman's thick, wavy hair off of his clammy brow.  “Honestly, are ya tryina give me a heart attack?”

He didn't respond, as he was unconscious and ill.  Potassium cyanide tended to do that to a guy.

She made to leave, to call in someone more qualified to deal with this, but then she made the grave mistake of looking back.  Roman was curled up painfully on his side, scrunched brow beaded with sweat. The color had returned to his skin, making him warm and vulnerable under the fluorescent lab lights.  His lips were moving slightly; judging by the twist to his lips, nothing pleasant was being said.

He was a child of light plagued by the darkness.

Calamity huffed, resting her forehead against the doorframe.  “I gotta stop fallin’ for the wounded duck routine.”

She glared at him as she stripped off her lab coat, punching it into a mound.  She stalked over to him, lifted his head, shoved the makeshift pillow underneath and deliberately left.

Until she heard his teeth start to chatter.  “Seriously?” She hissed. She was not renowned for her caring, maternal instincts.

She stomped back into the lab, yanking open the first-aid kit, and resentfully shaking out the fire-suffocating blanket.  “You owe me big time,” She informed the sleeping hero. “Next time there's a big baddie, you're gonna call me in, and imma get all the credit.”

He snorted.

“Glad we're in agreement.”  She laid the blanket over him, gratified to see the claminess receding from his skin.  She softened, something dangerously close to a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.  

“You’ll be okay, darlin’.”  Calamity tucked the blanket in around him.  

“Ya just need to sleep.”  She flicked the light switch off as Roman’s impossibly heavy eyelids opened slightly.  He didn’t exactly want to drop back off with a morally-gray vigilante watching over him, but he wasn’t quite sure he had a choice.

It was far too easy to slip back into his dreams.

“Duerme bien,”  Katrina murmured, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

  


Abilities are strange things.  They attach to people indiscriminately, attracted by the golden dust that runs through the veins of the chosen of humanity.  It took the being known as Doctor Deceit quite some time to figure out her Ability.

Kill someone, steal their body, steal their Ability, rinse and repeat.  Don't stay in the same body for too long or it will start to break down.  Scales will run across the skin. The eyes will glow a sickly yellow. The Ability will go haywire. It will become almost impossible to control.  You can fluctuate between original forms, make it impossible for anyone to remember what you truly look like, but not for long. It's exhausting. Better to just kill someone and get on with it.

Oh, and make sure to kill someone young so you can keep living for year after decade after… well, surely she was in the centuries by now.

Of course, she didn’t remember exactly how she had figured out these rules.  That was the trouble with an indefinite lifespan - the memories built up too far.  There were so many, lived over countless lifetimes, that resided in Doctor Deceit’s brain.  The only option was to let them go, or risk going mad.

So, Deceit forgot.

She forgot the people she had been, she forgot those she had loved, she forgot those she had hurt, she forgot how deeply others can feel, she forgot how old she was, she forgot what gender she was, choosing to adapt to whatever her host body was, and she forgot and she forgot and she forgot until there was hardly anything of the original self left.

She forgot until she could no longer remember why she wanted to keep living in the first place.

Somethings, however, were easy to remember - certain common denominators throughout all of the lifetimes she had lived.  Snakes were cool. People were much less different than they pretended to be. Being evil was fun. People, at their core, loved to hurt each other.  Italian food was delicious. Wars were fought for no real reason other than meaningless divisors like religion and nationality and beliefs. Peace was an ideal that would never come to pass so long as they found those invisible barriers that separated them from each other.

Peace would come with an equilibrium.  Equilibrium could only come when everyone was truly equal.  Equality, therefore, was the ultimate path to peace.

But in a world where men walked through the clouds as gods, where women could lift objects with their minds, where people with skin of rocks and the wings of angels roamed the streets, where children could see the innermost thoughts of another, those who were not so gifted could never stand a chance of being equal.

This struck her as unfair.  Throughout her many lifetimes, there was yet another thing that she found easy to remember: that people didn’t deserve Abilities.

Maybe that was why she was still alive -- to fix all of this.

Humans were weak and vapid and selfish.  So, she decided she could become someone with the power to change how they acted.

At first, she tried being the president.  That didn’t quite work out.

Then, as she was escaping jail in the body of a prison guard, she realized something vital.  The only way to fight fire was with fire. The only person powerful enough to enact the changes she wanted was the very man who had put her in jail: The Prince.

So she decided that she would get as close to The Prince as she possibly could, and then she would kill him.

Eventually she found the perfect target: Missy Darnelle.

She was a beautiful girl, of golden hair and blue eyes, but Missy was not a good person; Deceit had long ago decided that terms such as ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were largely useless.  Missy was generally kind and respectful, but she also lied and cheated. She donated to charities, but she awkwardly crossed the street when she saw the homeless. She didn’t hate the Unabled, but she didn’t stand up for them either.

She was just like so many of the people Deceit had seen before.  Most people _are_ just like each other; they simply don’t like to admit it.  The more people you see, however, the more you realize that none of us are as unique as we pretend.

Missy was lonely as well.  No one truly wants a mind-reader around; we all value our privacy too much. She was a hardworking journalist foremost instead of a friend or a lover.  Her job was the one area where her Ability proved to be a blessing instead of a burden. This was ideal. She would not be missed.

Missy was standing on the rooftop of a building, snapping pictures of The Prince’s battle with Mistress Malice when Doctor Deceit came up behind her.  Deceit waited until The Prince was slammed into the building, startling Missy enough to make her stumble.

Then, Doctor Deceit pushed her over the edge.  She fell in a golden blur past the crater where The Prince had landed.  She was a falling angel. She was a blazing comet. She was dead before she hit the ground.

Deceit watched with vague interest as the former Missy’s corpse was immediately covered up by rubble.  Deceit gritted her teeth together in pain. She held out her hands, watching them turn delicate and pale.  She hissed. Her frame twisted and bent as bones grated against each other, making her short and petite. Her hair retreated into her shrinking skull.  It shot back out, long and blonde. She scrunched her eyes closed against the pain, and when she opened them again, they were the softest, most beautiful sky-blue.

The new Missy Darnelle rummaged around in her brain, dismayed to find that hers was not the only voice present by a long shot.  A _very_ powerful mind reader then.  

Missy sighed.  Even after stealing bodies and Abilities for… however long she had been alive, she had managed to avoid being a mind reader.  The influx of thoughts could be rather painful.

No matter.  She would make the best of it, as she always did.  She focused, listening. The Prince was starting to recover.  The new Missy stepped deftly onto the rooftop’s lip, and she fell.

And, well, everyone knows how this story ends.

This was the tale of being who was known as Doctor Deceit, through the being known as Missy Darnelle. The beings known as Virgil Sanders (or The Savior, depending on who you were talking to) and Logan Abbott (or U. N. Owen, depending on how melodramatic he was feeling) were entirely unaware of this.

“They’re like frogs in a well,”  Missy said, describing her view of people in general.  “Who are so sure that they’re really in the ocean.”

Virgil’s brow creased.  “What?”

“All of these people” - She waved a hand around, indicating those hidden behind shelves of books - “they think that theirs is the only life worth paying attention to, or, even worse, they think that theirs is all there is.  

“They don’t pay attention to others, they’re self-absorbed, they’re shallow.  The majority of people have been given such a gift, and what do they do but squander it.  They think that they’re so important, that they mean something, but I’ve seen the truth of it all.  I’ve lived so many lives over so many years that I’ve seen all that humanity has to offer. It is lacking.  They think that the world is theirs, and that when they die it will be a burden to the world.”

Her lip curled into a delicate sneer.  “But death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.”

“And I presume you see yourself as the protagonist of this metaphorical narrative?”  Logan pressed a hand into his stomach, trying to physically push back the dread building there.

“Oh, I would never be so bold.”  Deceit smiled. “I’m the villain through and through, as you two are.”

Virgil jutted his chin out.  “I think we’re different brands of evil.”

“No doubt you’re off brand,”  Missy assuaged him mildly. “I’m merely what happens when someone like you sticks around long enough to learn that the only way things can change is by force.”  She swept her gaze over them, pinning them to their respective chairs with her electric blue eyes. “Then again, you two already came to that revelation, didn’t you?”

They didn’t speak, but neither needed to.

“That’s why I was so interested in helping out with your little crusade.  The three of us are like-minded.” She smiled benevolently at them.

A sudden, boisterous bout of laughter came from behind a few shelves.  Missy winced as it was shushed, subtly pressing the heel of her hand to her temple with a grimace.

Logan recognized that look all too well - all those with chronic pain did.  

“It hurts you, doesn’t it?”  He recalled the night of the gala, how she slunk in the corner, popping a red pill and hiding from the glitz and glam. “Reading so many minds at once?”

She smiled, self-deprecating.  “Even before this form started to break down, reading the minds of everyone around was rather… overwhelming.”  Her brow twitched, and she pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. She murmured. “It’s just so loud in here.”

“We’re in a library,”  Logan pointed out.

“Not the ‘in here’ she means, Lo.”  Virgil nudged him.

“I’m drowning,”  She hissed suddenly, ignoring their side tangent.  “Every single intrusive thought, every secret sin, every ill-wish imbeds itself in my mind until I can barely think past them.”  She pointed through several stacks of books towards a man in a red shirt. “I can see his browser history.” Missy narrowed her eyes at him.  “It's just pages and pages of pictures of pasta.”

“That certainly sounds… unpleasant,”  Logan hesitantly offered.

“It’s more than that.”  She pressed her hands against her head, trying to ward off the world outside.  “It’s torture.” Her eyes suddenly snapped up. “I have seven different songs stuck in my head at any given moment because of these idiots.”  She leveled a finger at Virgil. “And you really need to stop thinking about Oh Love by Green Day.”

“But it’s such a bop,”  Virgil muttered.

“It’s okay, though.”  Missy composed herself, smoothing down her hair and taking a deep breath. “Because around you two gentlemen” - she sighed happily - “Why, your thoughts are so similar to mine, I feel as if I can finally breathe.  We just want to save this world from itself.” Her smile twisted into a smirk. “Maybe that’s why I keep The Prince around.” She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “He doesn’t really think that much.”

Virgil’s blood boiled.  “Don’t talk about him like that!”  He snapped, so loudly that several fellow patrons shushed him.

Missy looked four seconds shy of rolling her eyes.  “Right,” She drawled. “Your little love affair. I was dismissing it because I trust you to do the correct thing here, Virgil.”  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me regret that.”

Virgil’s jaw worked.  “I’m not so sure I want to do what _you_ think is right,”  He growled, ignoring Logan’s warning glance.

Missy scoffed delicately, more of a small hum in her throat than any real sound of dismissal.  It was so painfully easy to see how she had enraptured the entire world as the princess to Their Prince.  “Virgil, please. Let’s not let personal issues get in the way of business, hm?” She blinked her dark lashes at him slowly.  “You weren’t planning on giving up your villany anyway. How is it any different now that you know I’m the one helping you?”

Virgil snarled.  “It’s different because you abused Roman.  It’s different because I don’t trust you. It’s different because I say that it is.”

She arched an eyebrow cooly.  “It isn’t different because you’ve hurt him as well.  It isn’t different because heroes and villains don’t mix.  It isn’t different because I keep cyanide in my purse and know what he eats.”

That stunned both of the men into silence for a moment.

“Choose your battles carefully, Virgil.  We’re on the same side here, and I’d hate to make an enemy out of someone I so admire.”  She stood up, casually grabbing her purse. “Meet me in that clearing in Pons Park tonight.  You know, the one he took you to on your special day?” She simpered. “Bring the machine, or I’ll kill him.  I don’t really have an objection to that.” She smiled. “I think I’d make a lovely Prince.”

Then, with a twirl of her magenta peacoat and a click of high heels, she was gone.

“Son of a bitch,”  Virgil murmured. “I really am going to have a list of nemeses at this point.”

  


Roman awoke with cotton in his mouth and sandpaper in his organs, but with a more or less clear head.  “Hello?” He called, voice rough.

The door swung open immediately, as if the woman had been standing guard.  “Hey there, sleepy head.” She padded into the room, stopping a safe distance away and holding out a glass of water.  “Ya feelin’ alright?”

“Much better.”  Roman took it, then hesitated and sniffed cautiously.

She arched an eyebrow.  “Paranoid little bugger, ain't ya?”

He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.  “Last time someone gave me something to drink, I ended up here.”  He brought the glass to his lips, experimentally swishing a mouthful around, then drained the entire glass.  “Thank you.”

She shrugged.  “Not sure if ya owe me one or two now.  I mean, ya did knock me out that one time, but I don't really hold grudges over cape work.”

He set the glass down with a soft clink, staring at her.  “What are you-” He cut himself off, fully taking her in for the first time - the long braid, the carefully covered scars, the sharp smirk, the red nails.  “Calamity,” He said, swallowing thickly. “Nice to see you again.”

She snorted.  “No, it isn't.”  She caught his look of mild alarm and rolled her eyes.  “I don't really see the point in niceties.”

“You mean besides common courtesy, Pearl Hart-less?” He quipped, experimentally flexing his limbs; the ice had retreated, leaving a numb prickling in its wake.

“Common courtesy for me was not dumpin’ your sorry self in the street to be poisoned.”  A hesitant smile played at the edge if her lips. “I reckon we're a mite bit past the ‘how do you do’s at this point.”

He laughed despite himself.  “You might have a point there.”

Tentatively, Roman swung his legs over the side of the table.  Calamity crept nearer, stabilizing arms at the ready. “Ya good there?”

“I believe-”  He cut himself off with a yelp as his knees nearly buckled underneath him.  The vigilante leapt forward, slinging his arm over her shoulders.

“Might not be the brightest idea ta try’n walk when you’ve just gotten detox from a nasty bit ‘o potassium cyanide.”  She grunted, shifting him back onto the table. “Ya might wanna hold your horses for a minute.”

“Yeah.”  Roman swallowed thickly.  “Maybe.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

“So,”  Roman suddenly burst out when the tension became unbearable.  “Crime fighting, right?”

She grinned, sharp and full of teeth.  “Not half bad way to spend ya time. Ya ever run into a tool by the name of Side Slider?”

Roman groaned.  “Ugh, yes. It took me forever to get the slime out of my hair.”

Calamity laughed.  “Imagine that with this here rope.”  She swung the end of her braid for emphasis.

“Perish the thought.”  Roman placed a hand over his heart dramatically.  “Oh, what about Animus?”

She smirked smugly.  “I already took him down when he was trynna kidnap the senator.”

The Prince’s eyes widened.  “That was you?” He held out a fist.  “Respeto.”

She bumped her knuckles against his.  “Thank ya.”

He shook his head wondrously.  “How had I barely heard of you before?  That’s kind of a huge deal. He took out the Renegades that one time.”

A tinge of bitterness settled in the arch of the vigilante’s eyebrows.  “You’re kinda the post’a boy for a Super.” She shrugged. “‘Sides, ain’t no way Imma get attention when I’m not registered.”

“Oh,”  The hero said awkwardly.

A mischievous gleam lit Calamity’s eyes.  “And what was the deal that one time with Penny Plunder?”

His cheeks flamed bright red.  “I didn’t know she was engaged to Lady Luckless, and she came on to me.”

“Denial ain’t just a river,”  She quipped.

He laughed, and they continued to swap stories of epic battles, criminals foiled, and evil plots overthrown.

“So,”  Calamity drawled eventually.  “Ya feel like tellin’ me who poisoned you?”

Roman huffed out an ironic laugh as the full insanity of the situation hit him.  “My now ex-girlfriend, Missy Darnelle, is actually the shapeshifting supervillain Doctor Deceit, and she got a tad irritated when I told her I wanted to break things off.”

She snorted.  “More than a tad, I’d say.”

He grinned.  “No kidding.”

“What’s the plan then?”  She asked. “Ya gonna round her up and throw away the key?”

“Hopefully.”  He swung his legs, sighing.  “I’m just…” He faltered. He hated her.  That’s what he wanted to say. She had lied to him and betrayed him and made him think that he was in love with her, that everything she did was for his benefit.  She pressed and pressed until he forgot that ‘no’ was even an option. He hated her. “I’m just going to go to a friend’s house for now.” He settled on. “Recover a bit.”

He wasn’t sure if he meant emotionally or physically.

“Ya gotta drink a lot of water and get some more sleep,”  She instructed. “It’s barely noon, but you’ve had a rough day.”

“Barely noon?”  Roman echoed incredulously.  He had just told Virgil he would be right back that morning.  Maybe he could make it before the villain started to worry. Well, worry more than his general standard.  “In that case-” He threw his feet over the edge, ignoring Calamity’s alarmed holler. He stood on warbling legs, grinning triumphantly.  “I think I better head on out.”

  


Kaimi knew something was up.  She had been hunched over her computer for the past six hours, combing through account transactions and purchase histories since Missy had taken over The Prince’s branding.  Most were mundane, income from sponsors or his regulated government salary, but there were just enough oddities to let her know something was off. Transactions to a U.N. Owen’s account.  Weapons orders. An automated deposit from Governor Wyrick.

Her computer beeped cheerfully, letting her know another purchase had just gone through.

She refreshed the page, squinting at the new transaction.  That didn’t make any sense.

“Satellites,”  She murmured. “What would Missy want with satellites?”

  


Virgil collapsed onto his couch, boneless.

After much alarmed muttering, frantic whispering, and hushed debating with Logan, they had come to the conclusion that they could, under no circumstances, let Missy get ahold of the Abilities Eraser.

He had left to go to his apartment and try to find Roman while Logan had left to go catch Patton up.

He pressed his face into the mildewy cushions, groaning.  He hadn't had much mental freedom to consider it earlier, but now that he was alone with his thoughts, he was terrified.  He was scared for Roman, he was scared for Logan, and he was scared for himself. Roman wasn't back yet from breaking things off with Missy.  What if she had captured him somehow? What if she had drugged him up and left him somewhere to slowly die? What if-

A soft knocking came from the door, banishing his thoughts.  “Who’s that rap, tap, tapping at my chamber door?” Virgil murmured.

He dragged himself off of the couch, swinging open the door.  “Look I'm not really in the mood-” He saw who it was and stopped.  A smile flirted with the edge of his lips as the tension immediately dropped from his shoulders. “Eh, you can come in I guess.”

“Wow,”  Roman said dryly, feeling a knot in his chest unravel at the sight of the purple-haired man.  “I'm flattered, Edgar Allan Poe-dantic.”

“You heard that?”  Virgil asked stepping aside to let him in.

“Wasn't sure if it was my super senses or my knowledge of your general macabre vibe.”  Shadows were stamped across Roman's face, but the lines around his eyes were drawn.

“Poe is the original emo, and I will stan him until the day I die.”  Virgil’s gray eyes ran over the hero, anxiously taking in his haggard appearance.  “You look like crap, by the way.”

Roman snorted, brushing past Virgil and linking their fingers togather.  “Then I look about ten times better than I feel.” The hero collapsed onto the couch, tugging the villain down with him as the ancient couch squeaked in protest.  “You will not believe what just happened to me.”

Virgil hummed, adjusting as Roman moved them to lay across the couch.  They barely fit. “I actually don’t think _you’re_ going to believe what happened to _me_.”

Roman rolled his eyes.  “What, you slept while Missy poisoned me and my senses went haywire so I ended up in a lab that had Calamity - remember her?  She beat you up and I saved you. - in it, and she ended up saving my life?” He took in Virgil’s wide eyes with a smug satisfaction.  “Oh, and it turns out that Missy is actually-”

“-Doctor Deceit?”  The villain interrupted dryly.  “Yeah, found that out after getting a phone call from the guy whose been giving me orders - who turned out to be Logan, by the way - to meet him at the library.  Then, turns out she’s been funneling him money to do my villain stuff. Also, she has a snake face and is functionally immortal. And she tried to threaten us with your life.”

Roman blinked slowly.  “Did you get poisoned?”

Virgil sulked.  “No.”

The hero smirked.  “I win this round, Imogem.”

The villain groaned, letting his head thunk against Roman’s warm chest.  “I need a nap.”

“And I need emotional stability and significant others who haven’t actively tried to kill me at least once but what can you do.”

“You’re talking, but all I’m hearing is” - Virgil lowered his voice, making it blustering and booming - “‘yadda-yadda I have a tragic backstory blah blah blah’.”

“That is not what I sound like!”  Roman cried indignantly. “This is slander, yellow pressing my buttons.”

“Hush now; pillows can’t talk,”  Virgil murmured.

Roman grumbled, but wrapped his arms around his nemesis nonetheless.  “You’re an actual nightmare.”

“You’re the sweetest,”  Virgil yawned. “Unraveling of ridiculously complicated plot lines later. I need to process the psychological trauma.”

“You didn’t get poisoned; I did,”  Roman protested mulishly, but it was too late.  The villain was already half-asleep. The hero pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.  “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown your sorry self directly into the sun.”

“Why did you say that with a southern accent?”

“I learned first hand that backhanded insults are surprisingly more effective that way.”

“Stop moving,” Virgil grumbled, deciding to ignore that cryptic comment.  “I really will feed you to sharks.”

Roman gently combed his fingers through purple hair.  “I have no doubt.”

“Good.”

Before long, they were both asleep.

They slumbered deeply, crammed onto that garish couch with Virgil resting on top of Roman's chest as the hero's arms encircled him.

Roman's grumbling stomach awoke them both.

“Hungry there, pretty boy?”  Virgil sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “I can't cook, but I've probably got something.”

Roman followed him into the kitchen, wincing apologetically.  “You would not believe how insane my metabolism is.”

Virgil made a show of checking him out.  “I think I can actually.”

“You scoundrel!”  Roman gasped theatrically.  “How dare you treat me so, Casa-no-way-va?”

“Some of your audacity must have rubbed off on me,”  Virgil said dryly, rummaging through his refrigerator.  “We’ve got ancient takeout, suspicious lettuce, and… pizza!”

“I’ll take the lettuce thanks.”  Roman leaned over him and deftly nabbed a slice of pizza.

“A wise choice indeed.”  Virgil nodded before biting into his own slice as he nudged the door closed with his hip.  He perched on the counter, grabbing Roman’s hand and tugging him closer. “Hey there, Princey,”  He said softly, gray eyes dancing.

Roman stood between Virgil’s legs.  “Hey there, Harry no-styles.”

The emo squaked idginantly, pretending to shove him away.  “Well, I was going to kiss you, but that’s just out of the question now.”

“Was it the One Direction joke?”  Roman took a bite of pizza. “Because I’ve been saving that one.”

“It was the implication that I have no style.”  Virgil looked down at him sternly. “Ripped black skinny jeans are a very valid style choice.”

“Only for those who still burst into tears when they hear a sustained G note,”  Roman retorted.

“That’s it!”  Virgil turned his nose up.  “No kiss for you.”

“Just one?”  The Cubano wheeled.  “Come on, Jude Law-ful evil.”

“Nope.”  Virgil popped the ‘p’.  “And I’m neutral evil, excuse you.”

“How could I ever have mistaken you?”  The other man leaned closer. “Kiss me, William Beck-oning.”

“The Academy Is… saying no.”  The engineer smirked.

Roman just laughed, then softened, gazing at him.  A smile played on the edge of his lips. “Kiss me, Virgil.”

So he did.

They broke apart with swollen lips and mused hair.

“Virgil?” Roman asked, remembering something as his gaze landed on a scrap of torn notebook paper, tacked up on the side of the refrigerator.

“Yeah?”  Virgil squeezed his hand, smiling at him so fondly that Roman almost lost track of his thoughts for a moment.  He couldn’t resist ducking in to give the villain’s hand a soft kiss before speaking.

“Who’s Arbor Price?”

The villain stilled.  “What?” He raised his head slowly, meeting Roman's gaze with those gray eyes.  But they looked different, the dull tarnish of gunpowder instead of the silvery shine of moonlight.  Virgil slipped from the counter, abandoning his food as he stood before Roman. For once, he wasn’t slouching.

Unease settled into Roman’s chest.  He was suddenly and forcibly reminded that Virgil was a dangerous man.  Then again - he set his jaw deliberately, steeling himself - so was he.

“I asked you who Arbor Price is,”  He said.

Virgil gritted his teeth, fingers of his free hand clenching.  His voice came out flat. “He’s a monster who hates the Unabled.”

The exact wording of the note came back to the hero.  He wavered, afraid for reasons he did not wish to name.  He had allowed himself to forget. They were both people on the edge, people who could feasibly do anything.

He felt the names over his heart burn.  Maybe they both had blood on their hands.

“And what did you do to him?”

Virgil tightened his jaw, raising his head defiantly.  “Only what he deserved.”

Worry creased his brow Roman tried to discern secrets from behind those enigmatic gray eyes.  “Virgil,” He said softly.  “What did you _do?”_

Virgil had the grace to turn his head.  He spoke not to the hero, but to the space to the left of the hero, where perhaps his words could be softened by their indirectness.  “I took his Ability.”

Roman snatched his hand away from Virgil’s, as if he had been burned.  “What?” It was not a question but an accusation, colored by what the villain knew could only be disgust.

Then again, horror and disgust have always been the most hideous of sisters.  What we are horrified by, we are disgusted with, if only because we don’t understand it.

“I invented a machine that can take away someone’s Abilities.  I needed to test it, and I was in the mindset to. So I did.” Virgil shoved his shaking hands in his pockets.  “What do you expect? I’m a villain.”

Roman groaned, running a hand through his hair.  “There's going to be a moment where, eventually, you have to do the right thing.”

“I love those moments!”  Virgil protested. “I like to wave at them as they pass me by.”

“This isn’t a game, Virgil!”  Roman snapped. “Do you even realize what you did to him?”

The villain gritted his teeth together.  “I punished a bad man.”

The hero slammed his fist into the wall next to the villain’s head.  The Savior didn't flinch, staring at him definitely as the drywall cracked.  “I could kill you right now. Wouldn’t that be justified, Savior? Wouldn’t I just be punishing a bad man?”

Virgil snorted.  “Yeah, you could kill me.  But so could literally any other person on this planet.  So could a piece of bad sushi. So could a particularly dedicated duck.  You’re not special, Roman.”

Roman swore under his breath and stepped back, shaking his head.  “Always a clever answer with you, isn’t there?”

“I like to think so.”

“You don’t… you don’t _get_ it, do you?”  The hero hissed.  “What you did is… if that ever happened to me…”  His lip curled into a grimace. “My Abilities aren’t just a part of me; they are me.  They’re everything that I love about myself. They’re everything that lets me be a hero to so many people.  If anyone ever took that away-” He cut himself off, fist clenching. His voice shook with barely-suppressed rage.  “I’d sooner die.”

His head suddenly snapped up, forcing the villain to look him in the eye.  “What happened to Arbor?”

Virgil blinked, taken aback.  “What?”

“What. Happened. To. Arbor. Price?”  The hero demanded.

Discontent was starting to gnaw at the villain’s stomach, but he forced it down, digging his heels in.  “I dropped him off at his house, safe and sound.”

Roman nodded slowly.  “And how’s he doing now?”

Virgil snarled.  “I don’t know; it’s not like I’ve got a live camera-feed on the asshole that kicked his son out for being Unabled.”

“But you didn’t even bother to check in on a man who’s just had his entire life ripped apart by _you?”_  Roman fired back.  “He could’ve killed himself for all you know!”

“I don’t care. I’m not sorry for what I did!”  The Savior snapped. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat!”

Roman stilled and looked at him for long enough that Virgil started to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny.  “You aren’t, are you?” He murmured eventually. He smiled bitterly. “I don’t know why I was crazy enough to think that this could work.”

He turned around.

“Roman,”  Virgil said softly.  “I’m sorry, okay? Can we talk about this?”

He walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Roman, I know you can hear me!”

A fresh crack spanned the middle of the door.

“Roman, please!”

He was gone.

“Roman!”

He didn’t come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took forever to get out! First I was wrapped up with Sympathetic Deceit Week (ha, irony), then I was traveling, then my beta and I decided to scrap like half of the chapter because what I had was trash and the list goes on. Hopefully, the next one will be out in a more timely manner.
> 
> Also, I may have gotten to the point where I'm not sure if I can respond to all of the comments. But please know that I read and adore every single one <3
> 
> In fact, thank all of you who read this! I get so happy whenever I see a new bookmark or comment or kudo or anything!
> 
> In other news, there is now a Discord chat for Powerless where you can scream at me for not updating and hurting your faves: https://discord.gg/GDQCm2C
> 
> and, as always,  
> ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO


	19. Local Vigilante Advocates Shooting People as Solution to Relationship Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic depiction of a panic attack - skip "He groaned, tugging at his skin." through "Slowly, Virgil felt himself nod."  
> blood mentions throughout
> 
> Please tell me if I missed a trigger!

 

Roman Garcia was used to running.

Superspeed aside, it was one of the constants in his life.  He ran from the ICE agents as a child. He ran from poverty and straight into Uncle Sam’s cold embrace as a teen.  He ran and ran from Missy as an adult, but he could never escape. Never, that is, until he ran into an engineer with lightning flashing in his eyes and injustice curling his lips into a sneer.

Virgil always said that Roman had to catch him.  So then why was Roman the one running away?

He ran, faster and faster until even he could barely see his legs underneath him.  His breathing was ragged and his eyes were blurry, but his path was true. His Abilities had never failed him before, after all.

He couldn’t imagine it.  He couldn’t imagine the act that Virgil had described.

He raced almost a thousand feet up the side of the building in the time between one heartbeat and the next.

That would be gone.

He paused at the top, staring at the horizon, endless to others, but to his eye, gradually sloping off as the Earth curved.  Skyscrapers faded into brownstones faded into suburbs faded into green, rolling country faded into the ocean faded into the endless void of space.  To his eyes, there were more stars than anyone else would think possible. Before that, however, the sky shimmered with the palest, purest blue. It was going to be a beautiful day today.

That would be gone.

The ocean was miles and miles away, but he could smell the crisp, sharp odor of brine carried by the wind.  Someone was baking bread, and the succulent smell brought water to his mouth. A car had broken down in one of the suburbs; he inhaled the fetor of burning oil and gasoline.  Somewhere, jasmine blossomed, releasing its heady perfume.

That would be gone.

Across town, a woman was greeting her children as they came home from school.  He could her her soft, pleasant voice mixing with their excited babbe as they all rushed to hug each other.  A violin sang out a mournful tune as its player’s heartbeat slowed in tempo with their song. The bow needed rosin; he could hear the faintest rasping of the horsehair against steel strings.

That would be gone.

His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and he tasted the faintest remnants of chapstick and raspberries.  He started to chuckle, then realized he had no audience to put on a facade for up here among the heavens. His practiced smile fell from his face, and he felt almost naked without it.  Chapstick and raspberries and the taste of Virgil lingered on his lips.

That would be gone too.

It was impossible.  How could his Virgil, of the moonlight eyes and the playful smirks and the dancing hands, have done _that?_

The world was an achingly beautiful thing, and all that Abilities did was increase that beauty.  When you could live in a world of technicolor, where you could soar among the clouds, speak with the animals, bend the tides, rewrite the stories of the stars, or see everything for just how truly magnificent it was, why would you ever wish to be plunged into black-and-white?   _How_ could you ever do that to someone?

People were all unique and marvelous and special.  It just wasn’t fair to take that individuality away.

Roman groaned, slumping to sit on the edge of the rooftop.  His mood lifted slightly, the worst of the churning cauldron of fear-dread-anger-horror-despair-sadness-anxiety-guilt in his stomach carried away by the buffeting winds.  The world was better from up high, he decided. Literally, not figuratively. The world had figuratively been at his feet for quite some time now.

He wasn’t sure it was better that way.

He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of wind running gentle fingers through his hair, playfully ruffling his clothes, pressing butterfly kisses to his skin.  After a bit, he was calm.

Hungry, too. That bread was starting to drive him crazy.

He sniffed.  Lemon… blueberries… oh, and glazed almonds.  Yum.

A mischievous smirk spread across his mouth.  He was sure they wouldn’t care if just a _single_ slice went missing.  (Street rat habits die hard, after all.)

Roman arose, stepping off of the building the way others stepped off of a curb and onto the street.  He rolled when he hit the ground, decreasing the damage to the sideway. Sure there were a few new cracks, but some municipal somebody with a Fixing Ability would make the rounds as they did every Sunday to keep the streets looking nice.  He wasn’t _totally_ inconsiderate about his (considerable, regular) damage to public property.

He parkoured over several fences and buildings to avoid the worst of the crowds.  He was still in his Prince uniform, and he really didn’t feel like stopping for a million selfies today.

He inhaled once more.  He was close. The buildings looked familiar, but as he had been in almost every part of New Psyche a dozen times over, he paid it no mind.  Until he reached a cheerful purple building, perfumed with the warm scent of baking bread and adorned with a sign reading **Bake My Day.**

Roman panicked, darting into a nearby alleyway to weigh his options.

He obviously couldn’t go inside.  However much he may have wished to see that gorgeous, charming baker once more, he was leery of any immediate connection to Virgil.  He was… well, infuriated wasn’t quite the word. He felt betrayed. He had known; of course he had known that Virgil was a villain. He had just gotten swept away in moonlight eyes and kind words and a determination so fierce it had burned away all of Roman’s armor, leaving him stripped and bare.

“Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan,”  He muttered.

His stomach growled again, insistently demanding the source of that heavenly scent.  Suddenly and painfully, he realized that he hadn’t finished that slice of pizza earlier.

Roman narrowed his eyes, casing out the building.  All he had to do was superspeed in, grab the bread, drop a twenty on the counter, and superspeed out.  No one had to know that he was there.

Oh, wait.  He didn’t have a twenty.

“Well,”  He mused.  “Time to Jean Valjean it.”

The hero darted forward, slipping through the open door and zooming into the kitchen, where the hallowed bread sat.

As soon as he skidded through the kitchen door, however, it slammed shut behind him, and Patton, stepped out, grinning dangerously.

“You _bread-er_ have a good excu- oh, hey, Roman!”  The malice dropped from his expression, and he beamed at the hero.  “How are you, kiddo? I haven't seen you in a few days!”

“Hey, Patton.”  Roman's gaze darted frantically towards the closed door, which he now noted was mechanized and reinforced.  “What's up with the door?”

“Oh, Virge made me some anti-theft thingamabobbers!  The door notices when someone goes through it really quick and closes, so no one can rob me.”  

Bitterness settled on Roman’s tongue.  Even here, that emo nightmare wouldn’t leave him alone.

Patton padded forward, wrapping his arms around the hero's broad torso.  His fingertips barely brushed against each other.

Something in Roman's chest cracked open with the embrace; he couldn't remember anything like this before, just being held.  “Hey, Pat.” He hugged the baker back, a smile unconsciously crossing his face. “I've missed you, padre.”

The baker stiffened in his arms, and Roman pulled back, concerned.  “You good there?”

“Oh, yeah! It’s just, um…”  He awkwardly reached up to scratch his cheek, and Roman noticed a purple wristband shining gently against his freckled skin.  “You can still call me padre; I don’t mind, but today is a bit of a… ‘they’ day.”

Oh shoot.  Roman’s eyes widened as they squirmed uncomfortably, darting anxious glances up at him.

“Forgive me, you most magnificent of nonbinary royalty!”  Roman cried dramatically, throwing a hand up to rest against his forehead.  “I was ignorant, and I am now” - He clenched a fist, gazing off into the distance - “ashamed!”

Patton giggled, and he shot a glance at them, pleased to see the delight shining in their eyes as their worries were forgotten.

He bit back a grin.  Time to ham it up, as he was best at.  “Truly,” He continued, dropping to one knee and holding his hands aloft.  “How could I have been so blind?” He winked, making Patton flush. “Surely none but a fool could ever assign this radiance to someone inside the gender binary.”

“Roman!”  Patton laughed, pushing at him playfully.  A sly grin crossed their face. “I’d say you’re pretty radiant yourself.”

Roman froze for a moment, surprised, before throwing his head back and releasing his deep, booming laugh.  “Careful there, Elizabeth Lavenz-amazing. We wouldn’t want Logan to hear that.”

A smooth voice, usual coolness tempered by amusement, interrupted them.  “I’m hardly the jealous type.”

They both turned to see Logan casually lounging in the reinforced doorway; midday sunlight streamed in from behind him, making his dark skin glow and turning the edges of his tight curls golden.

Roman blinked.  Was everyone here - himself included, of course - just obscenely pretty?

“Mediocre Expectations!”  The hero boomed grandly, pulling himself to his feet.  “How are you on this fine day?”

“Quite, well, thank you.”  Dark eyes scanned him, cataloguing his rumpled clothes, his reddened eyes, the shadows on his face.  “I believe a more appropriate vein of inquiry, however, is why, precisely, you were attempting to steal from Patton.”  He raised a hand, silencing Roman’s words before they fell from his lips. “Do avoid any dull, predictable lies. I find them most boring.  You would not attempt to use your Abilities to remain undetected if something was not amiss.”

A snippet of Virgil’s words returned to the hero.  “You’re the one who was giving Virgil his orders, weren’t you?”

Logan jutted his jaw defiantly, stalking into the room.  “Yes.”

Roman breathed deeply, hands clenching at his sides.  “So then you know all about his machine.”

Logan softened an infinitesimal amount.  “Yes,” He repeated, managing to make the word sound almost like an apology.

“I just don't…”  Roman shook his head helplessly.  “I don't understand.”

“Ah, well you see, many aspects of society are inherently unjust and unfair.  I therefore composed the idea of a machine that would strip away one of these unfair advantages as both a threat and insurance of egalitarian-”

“Logan!”  Patton interrupted their boyfriend quickly before he could shove his foot even further into his mouth and get punched, judging by how tightly Roman’s jaw was clenched.  Patton feared for his dental health. “Why don't you go check on Virge? I'm sure he could use someone to talk to right now.”

Logan grumbled but acquiesced, departing with a kiss from Patton and an eye roll from Roman.

On his way over, he received a text from Kaimi. _Logan, oh my gosh. I think I’m into something._

He typed out a response with the skill at texting and typing only the truly technologically dependent could master.  I _s it more than three hours of sleep?_

His phone buzzed a second later.   _Don’t call me out like this._

He grinned as he stepped deftly around a group of gawking tourists.   _Ring ring bitch_

_There was no punctuation in that text.  Who are you and what have you done with Logan Abbott?_

He was sure that his smugness could be conveyed even over text. _Virgil has been introducing me to ‘savagery’._

The response came a moment later. _A terrible decision, really.  But listen, I have this kinda crazy theory.  What if… Missy is Doctor Deceit?_

Logan almost ran into a light pole.

_I know, I know.  Just hear me out, Lo.  Doctor Deceit is still on the lam, so they could feasibly be anyone.  Combine that with Missy’s sudden personality change, and you’ve got some mildly persuasive circumstantial evidence.  However! If you take into consideration that she just bought -_

Logan stopped reading after that, mentally calculating the likelihood of getting murdered after he broke the news that he already knew.  He hesitantly pressed the call button, bringing the phone up to his ear. This would be an interesting conversation.

Kaimi’s screams of rage when he told her would haunt his nightmares.

 

There was a crack in the wall of Virgil's kitchen.

This was not a new or remarkable thing; several other cracks marred the crumbling plaster.  They arched through his apartment, spiderwebs ensnaring him in their sticky grasp. There were plenty of cracks in the walls, markers of age and damage.

This crack, however, was significant.  It was fresh, for one, more of a crater than anything else for another, but mostly because Roman had left it there.

He had pulled his fist back and slammed it into the wall beside Virgil's head, and Virgil hadn't flinched.  Because he had had faith. Faith that Roman wouldn't hurt him. Faith that they'd just talk it out. Faith that he could show Roman that Virgil was right.

He shouldn't have.  Because none of that had happened.  Roman _had_ hurt him, not physically, of course, but he had still hurt him.  They hadn't talked it out, and maybe, just maybe, Virgil wasn't right.  There was no chance of convincing Roman of it now. He had left.

So now Virgil was left there, sitting numbly on the floor and staring at a crack in the wall.

This was the longest period of time to simply sit and think he had possessed over the past three days.  It was Wednesday. The gala had been Saturday. He had taken Arbor Monday.

Three days.  Three whole days.  Three days in which he had fought a supervillain, kissed Roman, found out that his best friend had lied to him, and kidnapped and took a man's Ability.  Not in that order.

Three days so full of drama and excitement that Virgil hadn't had time to do what he was doing now - sitting and thinking.  He had jumped straight from his experiment into battle with Remy into the rest of the mess that branded itself as his life.

He hadn't had time to consider what he had done, time to let Arbor’s screams haunt his memories, time to find the sickly sheen of blood drifting through the air imprinted against the backs of his eyelids.

Now, in the silence of his apartment - so achingly still and quiet with only him in it - he could do nothing but.

Virgil pulled his knees up to his chest, tucked his chin on top of them, flipped up his hoodie, and thought.

He would be remiss not to put it out there that Arbor was a top-tier bigot.  He was an asshole though and through, but did that justify what Virgil had done?  Did that make it okay?

He groaned, tugging at his skin.  He had no business grappling with these moral issues.  Where was Patton, or even Logan? Virgil was built for building machines, not for dealing with people.  He disdained people enough as is without throwing his own self-hate into the mix.

He hadn't allowed himself to think of it, but now that he did, now that he could, he couldn't stop replaying the scene in his head.  He walked into his lab again and again, dragging the body of an unconscious man behind him. He strapped him to the table over and over, waiting until he was awake to flip the switch.  He keep doing it. Why did he keep doing it?

He wanted to scream at himself, to tell him to stop, to grab the crowbar and bash it in again, to scare his victim into changing his ways, not to force it through the sheerest, sickest violence.

He stole a man's identity from him countless times, biting his nails into the flesh of his palms to keep his face impassive as he did it time after time after time until his head was screaming and he was sure he was dying.

He was wrong.

Virgil's breath started coming in shorter, shallower pants.  He was breathing, but for some reason, the oxygen wasn't reaching its target cells.

He had been wrong.

Distantly, he was aware of screaming, but he didn't know if it was his or the ghosts of the screams of the man he had tortured.

Because that's what he had done.  Virgil moaned, clawing at his face in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to feel something, _anything_ past the overwhelming shame-guilt-fear-dread-hatred burning him alive.

No one deserved that.  It didn't matter what Arbor had done.  It didn't matter if he would change or not.  It didn't matter. He was a fucking _human being,_ and Virgil had violated him.

Virgil had ruined this guy’s entire life, and he hadn't bothered to think about that for _three days._

He wasn’t noble.  He wasn’t just someone branded a villain by society.  He had grown into his role; he had become a bad man. He was wrong.

_Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrongwrongwrongwrong_

Virgil gasped, the sound thick and wet.  The spiderweb of cracks in his walls were closing in on him.  He could feel the treads biting into his skin, squeezing him until he was sure he was breaking, crushing his lungs until he couldn't breathe, no matter how desperately he gasped.

The door swung open, and he lifted his reddened, tear-stained, snotty face, blindly snarling at it.

Logan hovered in the doorway, cataloging.  “Oh, Virgil,” Said he, softly. The words almost came out as an admonishment.

The villain in question just groaned, clutching at his clothing as he rocked back and forth.

Logan slowly padded into the room and knelt beside him, letting Virgil adjust to his presence.  “Can I touch you?”

Virgil gasped out a no, shaking his head frantically.

“Just as well then,”  Logan said, calmly and slowly; the familiar tenor of his voice wrapped around Virgil comfortingly.  “Virgil, I have complete faith in your mental capabilities. You are a clever man, and I am sure that you are aware you're having a panic attack.  However, I ask you to momentarily disregard whatever your instincts may be telling you and have faith in me to assist you here.”

“Because trusting you has worked out so well before.”  Virgil's voice was thick and broken, retort rendered ineffective by the panic clouding his eyes.  He shook his head. “I fucked up, Logan,” He moaned, rocking back and forth. “I fucked up I fucked up I-”  He continued his mantra, practically screaming as Logan tried in vain to get him to calm. “I shouldn’t have done it,”  He gasped. “I hurt him and I fucked up and I ruined everything and I-”

“Falsehood.”  Logan’s deep, assertive cut Virgil off mid-sob.  “Well, the first are abject truths, but I am just as much to blame as you.”

Virgil gasped for breath, shaking his head like a software program caught inside an endless loop; he was just bad code that kept repeating no matter what he tried.  “I did it. I’m the one who did it.”

“The fault is just as much mine, Virgil,”  Logan said softly. “These sins are not yours to bear alone.  I know I have given you few reasons place your trust within me,”  He admitted. “But I brazenly ask you to give your faith to me once more.”  He softened, shifting beside Virgil, not touching, but close enough that Virgil could feel his heat.  “Breathe with me, Virgil, alright?”

Slowly, Virgil felt himself nod.

“In for four,”  Logan murmured, watching carefully to ensure his instructions were being followed.  “Hold for seven - good, Virgil, you’re doing so well. Now, out for eight. Good. In for four.”

Logan continued sitting and breathing with Virgil, offering him words of encouragement and a comforting presence, until the spiderwebs crushing the villain’s chest receded, and the dread suffocating him lightened up.

“Can I touch you now?”  Logan inquired, hovering beside him.

Virgil wordlessly wrapped his arms around the astronomer's neck, burying his face in the crook of the other man’s neck.  “Thank you,” He breathed, words tickling Logan’s dark skin.

Automatically, Logan’s hands came up to rest against the villain’s back.  “Of course.”

It was like that with them - a few murmured words, a simple touch, a shared glance.  Their relationship was an understood thing. Logan’s recent reveal had shaken their bond, thrown confusion into what had for so long been established.

Perhaps, now, however, they both understood a little more.  Perhaps it wasn’t best to leave some things unsaid.

“I love you,”  Virgil said, curling up further against him.

Logan smiled, pressing a kiss to the other’s sweat-matted hair.  “I, as well, harbor feelings of affection for you.”

That wrangled a snort of amusement from Virgil.  “Just say that you love me too, nerd.”

“I love you too, nerd,”  Logan parroted obediently.

It was a full laugh this time, releasing liberal amounts of serotonin in the astronomer's brain.  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Virgil pulled back, a smile in his eyes if not on his lips.

“I must protest.”  Logan arched an eyebrow, tamping down a grin.  “I repeated exactly what you asked of me. Really, Virgil, I am entirely unprepared for these impossibilities you demand.  How is it that I have displeased you by heeding your request?”

Finally, a smile - small but real - graced the engineer’s lips.  “You’re ridiculous,” He accused gently.

“You overlook the necktie.”  Logan adjusted it proudly. “I am obviously quite the opposite.”

Virgil just shook his head.  “Ridiculous,” He repeated then pressed a kiss to Logan’s cheek.

Logan stood, then took the villain's hand and helped him up.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” They didn’t unlace their fingers on the walk over, as Virgil pressed a blissfully cold washcloth to his eyes, or as a sudden, insistant knocking pounded at the door.

“This is the most visitors I’ve gotten… ever,”  Virgil muttered.

“Do you want to open it?”

Both villains eyed the door before Virgil sighed.  “Might as well.”

They swung it open to reveal a woman with a long, thick braid and a face saved from obscurity by the myriad of scars and bruises adorning it.  “Hey, y’all,” She drawled.

“I’m sorry; are you an acquaintance of ours?”  Logan asked as Virgil unconsciously stepped forward to shield him.

“By proxy.”  She sauntered past them; they were too stunned by her audacity to try to stop her.  “Y’all are Virgil and Logan, right?”

They both confirmed hesitantly, wondering if Missy had put a hit out on them.

Her gaze traveled idly around the room, instinctively scanning for escape routes and weapons.  “Pleasure to meet ya.” She caught their eyes and smirked.

“I'm Calamity.”

 

Roman was sitting at the marble countertop, kicking his feet back and forth and scowling when Kaimi Alvi walked into Bake My Day.

He stilled when he saw her then threw his shoulders back and plastered a smile onto his face.  “Ms. Alvi!” The Prince boomed grandly. “How are you on this fine day?”

She smiled at him, unsurprised to see the superhero sulking in a bakery.  Patton had called her in for backup, after all. “Quite well, My Prince.”

Patton looked back and forth between the two of them before suddenly laughing at their own thoughtlessness.  “Oh, that's right!” They exclaimed. “I forgot you two already know each other. Superhero, reporter, duh.” They grinned as the latter took a seat next to the former.  “I _shutter_ to think of all the time you two must've spent in front of a camera together.”

“Except _someone_ doesn't give that many interviews.”  Kaimi arched an eyebrow, a hint of pettiness in her tone.

Roman just scoffed amiably.  “I've given you plenty of interviews before.”

“Only twelve in the past two years,”  She said, a tad petulantly, but the baker cut them both off before she could start rattling off comparisons of that number versus the number of his successful battles in the same time (close to twenty-six).

“Come on, kiddos, this isn't about work!”

Both hero and reporter gave Patton a look that expressed a high level of incredulity that anything could not be about work.

“We're here to support Roman,”  They said firmly. “And help him talk through whatever.”

Kaimi blinked.  “Roman? Who's-” She cut herself off as the hero shifted uncomfortably next to her.  “Oh,” She said softly.

He shrugged self-consciously.  “I'm not really… used to introducing myself.”

Patton looked like they were about to cry at that, so Kaimi swiftly took over.

“Well then.”  She stuck out her hand.  “No time like the present.”

Roman grasped her hand tentatively, and she shook it briskly.  “I'm Kaimi Alvi,” She supplied unnecessarily.

The sheer insanity of introducing himself to someone he had known for years managed to bring a small, genuine smile to Roman's lips.  “Roman Garcia,” He informed her. His own name felt odd on his tongue, yet simultaneously pleasant. It was like the words to an old favorite song he hadn't sang along to for the longest time - a bit off, but comfortingly familiar.

She smiled at him.  “A pleasure to meet you, Roman.”

He grinned back.  “The pleasure is all mine, Kaimi.”

“And I'm Patton!”  The person in question proclaimed.  When the other two looked at them questioningly, they just shrugged.  “I didn't want to feel left out.”

Fondness tugged at the corner of Roman's mouth.  “I would be remiss to ever neglect you.”

Patton giggled, pleased, but quickly brought them back to task.  “We’re not here to flirt, kiddo” - they stalwartly ignored Roman’s interjection of ‘but it’s so fun!’ - “We’re here to see what is going on between you and Virgil, and how you two can fix it.”

The sunshine drained out of Roman, revealing shadows under his eyes and lines on his forehead.  “That’s the problem, Pat. I’m not sure it can be fixed.”

 

Virgil huffed out an exasperated breath as the vigilante sauntered nonchalantly into his living room.  “Of course you are.”

Calamity arched an eyebrow.  “Ya don’t look that surprised to see me.”

Virgil just sighed.  “I've already had a crazy morning. This might as well happen too.”  He dragged his sleeve roughly across his face, grounding himself in the slide of fabric against soft skin.  “Plus, I'm pretty sure I owe you a thank-you for saving Roman.”

After a beat, she remembered that she and The Prince had never swapped names.  Roman. She tested the name against the hero and found it fit well.

“Well, I did try ta kill you that one time,”  She drawled. “I say we just call it even.”

He snorted out an ungainly laugh.  “Sure.” A smile touched the edge of his lips.  “Sounds good to me.” He stuck out a hand. “Virgil Sanders.”

She grabbed it, almost yanking his arm off with the strength of her grip.  “Katrina Santos. Don't call me Kat, and I won't try ta shoot you again.” She smirked. “For that, at least.”

“Never have I been so thoroughly reassured,”  The villain deadpanned, retracting his arm and gingerly rolling it to see if all of his nerve endings were still intact.

“Can't ya just tell imma carin’, maternal figure?”  She sassed right back.

“As charming as this encounter may be,”  Logan interrupted dryly, eyeing the vigilante with obvious distaste.  “Might we ask what you're doing here?”

Neither of them moved to shake hands.

She smirked.  “Well, I got off tha phone with Kaimi, and once my ears stopped ringin’ from that hollerin’ she did about how no one tells her anything when I told her I also already knew who Missy is, I fig’red I pr’olly outta avoid her hissy fit and skedaddle over here.”

The blood drained from Logan's face.  “My vocabulary cards did not prepare me for this.”

Virgil blinked, looking back and forth between the two of them.  “Kaimi? As in Kaimi Alvi?”

“Naw,”  She drawled.  “The _other_ Kaimi who defected on national tv and is runnin’ a newspaper with ya man here.”

“Tragically - or luckily, I can never decide - not my man.”  Virgil ignored Logan’s idginant splutter. “The dude I’m into is actually a superhero and my arch nemesis who just stormed out after realizing that - shock and surprise - I’m a villain!”

The vigilante squinted her eyes at him, removing a toothpick from inside her leather jacket and chewing on it.  “What in tarnation?”

Virgil’s anxiety remembered at that moment that it existed and decided to run in, guns blazing.

Oh no he should not have told her that.  She was a vigilante! She had tried to shoot him!  She probably had like five knives on her right now!  She was going to cut him open and feed him to some… cows?

Virgil momentarily lost his train of thought, trying to think of a carnivorous farm animal.

“It truly would’ve served in your best interests to have reserved that information, Virgil.”  Logan stared the vigilante down cooly.

“Naw, I’m interested now.”  Without ceremony, she dragged out a barstool and plopped down, resting her elbows on the counter.  “Spill the beans, sugar.”

For some reason, Virgil found himself doing just that.  He sat on the countertop and relayed his entire epic saga with Roman - skipping over some of the more private details.  Logan, making disapproving noises and occasionally interjecting with a clarification, glared at the vigilante like it was in his job description.

The vigilante was a surprisingly good listener, adding little affirmative hums every so often and nodding along.

“So then he punched the wall and left,”  Virgil finished.

Calamity nodded pensively for a moment then announced  “If brains were leather, there wouldn't be enough to saddle a junebug between the two of ya.”

Virgil choked.  “What?”

“Y'all’ve gotta be two o’ the biggest idiots I've ever met.”  Calamity rolled her eyes. “I don't get why y’all’re being so dramatic. Ya just gotta go for it. When I saw Kaimi for the first time, I thought ‘oh my Atlanta she’s hot,’ so I shot her for an excuse to talk to her, and it worked out great.”

Logan snarled at her.  “She had to get seven stitches because of you.”

Virgil leaned forward with interest.  “Are you implying that I can shoot Roman? Because I'm down.”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “No one is shooting anyone.”

“I shoot people on a regular basis,”  The vigilante pointed out mildly.

The astronomer's glare intensified, but she just sat, smugly impervious.

“I mean it's not like it would really even hurt him if I did,”  Virgil mused. “Could be a great stress relief tactic.”

“It appears,”  Logan sighed. “That the burden of being the voice of logic, once more, falls upon my shoulders.”

The villain snorted.  “Please. Don’t act like you don’t love telling other people when they’re wrong.”

The astronomer wilted.  “I can’t tell you you’re wrong now,”  He murmured sadly.

“Look, darlin’.”  Katrina twisted the end of her braid around her fingers.  “Have ya tried reasonin’ with him?”

“He left before I could say anything!”  Virgil cried. “Honestly, he is just so-”

“- Infuriating!”  Roman proclaimed, sitting with Patton and Kaimi in the front room of Bake My Day.  “I had to get out of there before I did something drastic.”

Kaimi hummed in vague affirmation, placing a soothing hand on his arm.

“I mean…”  Roman ran a hand through his hair.  “He just doesn't get it! I understand that he's never had Abilities, but he can't just dismiss me when I say how important they are to me! He doesn't even understand that I was trying-”

“-to do the right thing!”  Virgil continued. “I know I didn't do it the right way, but I was doing it for the right reasons.  Shouldn't that count for-”

“-something?  Something, anything to excuse him?”  Roman lamented. “He freaked me out; you should've seen his eyes.  They were just… dead. It was-”

“-horrifying, yeah, but I wouldn't do it again!”  Virgil huffed.

“Virgil,”  Logan said cautiously.  “Have you considered relaying any of this information-”

“-to him, Kiddo?”  Patton looked at the hero with big, sad eyes.  “Lo and Virge were just fighting, but they managed to talk everything out!”

“They were fighting?”  Kaimi scrunched her brow.  “Why?”

“Logan was funneling Virgil money from Missy because he was secretly Virgil's villain boss and Virgil is The Savior.”  Patton said casually.

Kaimi hit her head against the counter.  “No one tells me anything anymore,” She muttered petulantly, voice muffled.  “Honestly, what's up with all the-”

“-secrets y'all’re keepin’?”  Katrina drawled, perching on one of Virgil's barstools.  “It ain't that hard to just talk to each other.”

Virgil sighed.  “I know that. I'm the one trying to talk-”

“- to him!  Roman raked a hand through his hair.  “I just don't get why he won't-”

“-listen to me.”  Virgil huffed.

Logan hummed vaguely as Katrina let the engineer vent.  He discreetly pulled out his phone, seeing a message from Patton.   _Virge complaining about not being heard too?_

_Indisputably._

_I’ll see if I can get the kiddo over there._ A moment later, his phone buzzed again. _Love you <3 _

It was an inopportune moment, but Logan’s heart metaphorically glowed. _I love you as well._

Before long, a knock came from Virgil's door.

“Excellent.”  Logan rose to his feet.  “That must be them.”

Virgil stiffened, eyes narrowing as his best friend approached the entryway.  “‘Them’ as in just Patton, or ‘them’ as in I'm going to have to murder you because you keep letting people inside of my house?”

“A hopefully less macabre version of the latter.”  Logan opened the door, revealing Patton, Kaimi, and one very reluctant Roman.  He had only been coaxed over with the power of the Dad Voice.

Logan made allow them in, but before he could, Virgil had already hurled himself over the counter and barricaded himself in his room.

Patton huffed out a breath of exasperation.  “I got him.” They rapped gently at his bedroom door, murmured a few soft words, and slipped through as the reporter and Roman filed inside.

The hero seemed genuinely pleased to see the vigilante, the two of them greeting each other with mutual smirks.

“Hey, Mr. goodie-two-shoes,” She drawled.

“Greetings, Laura Bullion-the-point,”  He fired back, tapping her outstretched fist with his own.

Patton's voice drifted out from the other room.  “Kiddo, come on!”

A deep rumble pressed itself though the door, but it came out too muffled for anything but its petulant tone to be discerned.

“Well, I don't care”- the squeaking of bedsprings as Patton sat down - “you're already on my short list for not taking off your binder when you were fighting that sand guy.  Don't make me drag you out myself.”

The rumble was longer this time, but the resistance was wearing away.  Eventually, the door squeaked open - Roman winced at both the squeal and the dry crackle of rust falling - revealing Virgil.

His hair was a mess and his nose was red, but there was a bitter set to his jaw as he stared out at Roman.

Roman knew those eyes, how they flashed and burned with excitement or went dull and flat with anger or shone with joy.  He knew them, and he knew Virgil. A villain he may have been, but cruel he was not. The hero steeled himself, resolving to hear this out.

Virgil knew those eyes.  He had seen them alight with exuberance, dark with lust, glassy with fear, and soft with contentment.  He knew them, and he knew Roman. He was a hero, but he was not an enemy. The villain composed himself, ready for one more try, with feeling.

“Hey, Princey.”  Virgil broke the silence first.  His words were clipped and polished, falling from his lips and clattering against the floor.

“Hey, The Pretty boy Reckless.”  Roman responded, a tenseness in his shoulders.  He looked around, acutely aware of the other people in the room.  “Can we talk?”

Virgil nodded.  “Yeah.” He led the hero to the window, pushing it open and clambering out onto the rusted fire escape.

“A fire escape?”  Roman asked, a hesitant hint of laughter flickering in his tone.

“You can't say I don't take you to all the best places,”  Virgil quipped.

“Truly,”  Roman deadpanned.  “I've never been romanced so effectively.”  

Then, they said absolutely nothing.  The silence that settled between them was oppressive.  They stared at each other, unsure how to reach him but desperate to try.  Something was hiding behind the other’s eyes, a proudness, a fierceness, a stubbornness.

“How could you do it?”  Roman asked when the quiet became overbearing.  He was trying his best to make it sound otherwise, he really was, but the syllables still stung like an accusation.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”  Virgil clenched his jaw, twisting his fingers together.  “I was just so… mad. I just saw you accept Missy’s proposal after telling me that I was a villain, and I figured that I might as well be what everyone thinks of me anyway.”  He laughed bitterly. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

“So it’s my fault then?”  Roman snapped. They were both still standing, and Virgil took an unconscious step forward at his words.

“What? No!”  Virgil protested.  “Roman, that’s not what I meant.”

The flash of those gray eyes set off a war inside of Roman.  He wanted to punch him. He wanted to kiss him senseless. He wanted to slam him against a wall and have his way with him.  He wanted to cry. He wanted him to apologize. He wanted him to understand.

He wanted him.

“If everyone insists on making me the villain, why shouldn’t I be!”  Virgil gestured broadly, a challenge in the tilt of his jaw. “Aren’t you all about putting on a show, pretty boy?”

Roman snarled, stepping forward until Virgil’s back hit the cracked brick facade.  “You,” He growled. “Are insufferable.”

“And you,”  The villain hissed.  “Are a pig-headed brute.”

Roman’s lip curled into a snarl.  “Stop doing that.”

“I should’ve guessed that you’re brain dead,”  Virgil snapped. “It explains everything. I’m not doing anything but standing here.”

“What you’re doing” - Roman leaned his arm above the other man’s head, leaning in - “is driving me absolutely crazy.”

The villain tilted his head up, eyebrow arched cooly.  “No, I’m the one in the passenger seat here, Princey.”

“Stop acting like your moral compass is broken when you care so much you can’t even admit it.”  Roman glared at him, eyes dark with anger and something Virgil was only too happy to encourage.

Virgil just laughed; the sound hit Roman, as familiar as a bullet to the chest.  “My moral compass is just fine, but it’s less of a compass and more of a roulette wheel.”

“If I kiss you, will you shut the hell up?”

“One way to find out.”

They crashed into each other in a way that should’ve been accompanied by the smell of burning rubber and the sound of shattering glass.  Virgil snarled into the kiss, clawing at Roman’s shoulders until the dense hero _finally_ got the hint and lifted him up, wrapping the villain’s legs around his waist.

They burned against each other, melting under the heat of this thing growing between them, leaving scars and pleasure in its wake.  They roared as a bonfire, surging against each other, grinding together, demanding more, closer, tighter, deeper.

After all, the only way to fight fire is with fire.

Roman’s teeth sliced Virgil’s bottom lip open, and Virgil hissed, fisting his hands in Roman’s hair and pulling in punishment.

Roman gasped, Virgil taking the opportunity to explore all of Roman’s previously discovered weak spots.

That’s when Roman was hit with the taste of raspberries and chapstick.  That’s when Virgil realized that he knew exactly how to kiss Roman to make the Cubano go weak in the knees.

Because that was _Virgil_ the hero was kissing, and that was _Roman_ the villain was kissing.

Slowly, their fire simmered down into a gentle flame, a subdued heat that was still more than enough to warm them both.  The frenzy of lips and tongue and teeth faded into pressure and contact and a slow, steady pleasure. Virgil’s hands cupped Roman’s cheeks while Roman’s hands rested on Virgil’s waist.

Virgil’s scuffed combat boots found themselves back on planet Earth.

They finally separated after gentle kiss after gentle kiss, melding into each other sweetly.

Roman blinked.  “Well, if I knew that was all it took to get you to calm down, I would’ve tried that earlier.”

Virgil smirked lazily.  “You look a bit more relaxed yourself.”

Roman’s eyes widened in panic, and he ducked down to check his reflection in the window.  He frantically combed the ruffled locks back into place with his fingers.

Virgil snickered slightly, and the hero took a deep breath and finally sat down, comically large on the tiny metal ledge.

They smiled at each other before Roman managed to break the moment up.

“I'm sorry. I should probably start with that.”

“You don't have anything to-”

“Yes,”  Roman interrupted him gently.  “I do. I shouldn't have walked out on you without listening to what you had to say, so I'm sorry for that.”

Virgil shrugged.  “You got mad. I got mad, too.”  They were pensive for a beat before he spoke again.  “I didn't mean it.”

Roman looked at him, confused, and he elaborated.

“That I would do it again.”  Virgil twisted his sleeves around his hands.  “I… I scared myself when it happened. I expected it to be glorious and profound, but it was just ugly. I did something bad to someone bad, and I still don't really feel that sorry for him, but…”  He faltered.

“‘I understand a fury in your words, but not your words’,”  Roman quoted.

Virgil’s eyes softened.  “You always resort to Shakespeare when you get emotional, don’t you?”

The hero grinned, self-deprecating.  “I’m always willing to bow to the one man more eloquent than I.”

The villain snorted, knocking their shoulders together.  “So the William Shakespeare is the _one_ man more eloquent than you?”

“Yup! I don’t compare myself to female and nonbinary authors because they are unfairly talented.”  He shrugged.

“That’s not what…”  Virgil trailed off, shaking his head with a laugh.  “You’re something else, Princey.”

“By ‘else’, I’m sure you mean ridiculously charming and handsome.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

They smiled at each other, tentative and tremulous, for a moment.

“I don’t think that you really understand just how important Abilities are to me, Virgil.”  Roman finally broached the topic that had been hanging ominously over them. He gestured broadly.  “I’d be dead ten times over without them. I did tricks to earn money when I lived on the streets. They let me walk away from battles unscathed. Even _this morning,_ if I didn’t have my superspeed, I wouldn’t have gotten to Calamity in time.”

Virgil sighed, lines appearing across his brow.  “No,” He agreed. “I really don’t think I could ever understand.”  He caught Roman’s surprised look and smirked. “Just being honest, Princey. I don’t have Abilities. I’m never going to have Abilities.  I can’t bend time or lift entire buildings or create new stars or anything like that.” He shrugged, a shocking lack of rancor in his movements.  “I got over that forever ago, even if some people didn’t.”

“Okay.”  Roman nodded.  “And I get that, but do you think you can try?”

Virgil waved a hand magnanimously.  “The floor is yours, pretty boy.”

Roman tapped his fingers in thought, hand sliding into his pocket and pulling out his stem toy.  When he fiddled with one of the textured surfaces, the back of his mind marveling - as it was prone to do - at the skill of the engineer, the analogy hit him.

“It’s like your hands,”  He said, freeing up one of his own to gently run it along the engineer’s long, graceful fingers.  His senses ran over countless scars and nicks and burns; Virgil’s love affair with machinery was written upon his skin for the world to see.

The engineer blinked.  “What?” He was confused, but he didn’t move away from the contact; he was enjoying it far too much for that.

“You’re brilliant.”  Roman touched his hands gently, reverently, aware that he could shatter them without a single ounce of effort, but aghast at the very thought.  Virgil’s hands were things to be treasured, protected, admired from a safe distance. “You can build anything, Virgil.”

“And we saw how well that turned out,”  The villain muttered darkly.

“And your hands” - Roman stalwartly ignored his interjection - “are how you do that.  You built your hoverbike with these hands. You defeated a supervillain with these hands.  You’ve changed the world with these hands.” Roman dragged his fingertips down the villain’s palm, a touch salaciously.  His soft smile turn wicked. “I imagine they’re quite skilled at other things, too, Lord Byron-y.”

Virgil arched an eyebrow, trying to hide the small grin threatening to touch his lips.  “Put a bit of thought into it, have you?”

Roman just laughed, unashamed to the end.  “More than a bit, I’d say.”

The conversation was interrupted for a moment as they both attempted to outdo each other in wiggling their eyebrows.

Roman sobered, settling his feet back onto Earth (his head, however, would forever remain in the clouds).  “Now imagine you didn’t have your hands anymore. Imagine you could never get a prosthetic, because nothing will ever come close to your hands.  Imagine that every time you feel a phantom pain or reach for something, the pain comes rushing back, and you remember that someone took your hands from you.”  Roman’s own hand stilled, no longer dancing over Virgil’s palm but instead pressing against it lightly. “Because that’s what you did to Arbor.”

“Oh,”  Virgil said softly as the magnitude hit him.  “Oh,” He repeated, incapable of doing much else.  A sickening twist in his gut - a remnant from his panic attack - made itself known, festering in his stomach and sending waves of self-hatred through him.  “I didn’t…” He looked up at Roman, eyes swimming in confusion and regret and sorrow. “I didn’t know.”

Roman just placed his arm around Virgil’s shoulders, pulling him in to plant a soft kiss into purple hair.

“Virgil,”  Roman murmured.  “What did you mean earlier by ‘even if some people didn’t’?”

The villain froze for a moment before the edge of his mouth quirked up in a self-depreciating grin.  “You know, Princey, I think we’ve gotten everyone’s tragic backstory but mine.”

Roman blinked.  “Hasn’t literally your entire life been your tragic backstory?”

Virgil laughed.  “You're not wrong.”

The hero waited a beat, then noticed the way the villain's hands were trembling.  Silently, he fished his stim toy back out and handed it to Virgil.

The purple-haired man looked at for a moment, and if Roman didn't know better, he would've sworn he saw Virgil's eyes grow misty.

“I grew up a little way aware from here,”  Virgil began. “One of those no-name suburbs that are filled with all of those ‘perfect’ families filed neatly into pastel houses with perfectly mown lawns and two flower beds each.”  He flipped the cube over, fiddling with the plastic switches. It was so much easier to stare at his creation’s sparkling red surface than risk seeing Roman's reaction.

“I was an only child, and I didn't present my Abilities at birth, which, to be fair, is pretty common.”  He ran his fingers over the textures, releasing a sound that was more strangled hiss of pain than sigh. “There's no real point in dragging this out.  You're a smart guy. Only kid minus Abilities plus crippling anxiety plus overwhelming expectations equals nothing good.” He scowled at his lap. “Even after I hit puberty, they didn't give up on me.  They thought it was just a phase of me being delayed, or that I had a very specific Ability that I just didn't have the opportunity to discover yet.”

He snorted.  “Spoiler alert: that's bull. They knew better. They tested my blood for Abiletum and found nothing. I'm as _Powerless_ as you can be.”

Roman flinched unconsciously, and Virgil arched an eyebrow at him.  “Not used to such crude language, Princey?” He dropped his voice down to an exaggerated whisper.  “It's okay. I'm Powerless; I get to say it.”

Roman just shrugged awkwardly.  The slur had always sat badly with him.  “You were saying?”

He regretted his words when the teasing gleam faded from Virgil's eyes.

“They got mad. More than mad actually. They went straight-up crazy. They kept insisting that they could fix me, that this was just temporary.”  He moved to pick at his skin, but Roman placed the toy in his hands again. “They didn't get that's just who I am. I didn't ask to be born like this; it just happened.”

He clenched the toy in his hand suddenly.  “So they sent me off to a conversion camp.”

Roman sucked in a sharp gasp.  The most fanatical, in-denial parents of Unabled children sometimes sent them to camps that claimed to be able to unlock a child's Ability.  What they didn't post in the brochures was that they did this by subjugating the child to what basically surmounted to torture.

Virgil tossed the cube up in the air, then caught it, repeating the motion a few times.  “It sucked.” That was all he would say about it. That was all he wanted to say about it.  That was all he he could bear to say about it without waking up on cold sweats with the ghosts of electric shocks zapping down his spine and needles jabbing into his skin.

“It didn't work, and they sent me home.”

He chuckled weakly.  “I hated my parents after that. I never even got around to telling them that I'm actually a guy.”  He smiled. “Maybe it's better this way. If I ever run into them by accident, they won't even know who I am.”

A pang of sympathy hit Roman.  “You never even tried to… stop it?  Fight back?”

He shrugged.  “I mean, what could I do? I couldn't run away.  I just tried to stay out of the house as often as possible.  I had… oh man, it must've been fifteen part-time jobs.” He caught the Cubano’s alarmed look and waved him off.  “Not at the same time. I was anxious, Unabled, and shunned, but not actively suicidal.”

Roman clapped his shoulder.  “Good to see you haven't changed a bit, The Summer un-Set-tling.”

“I like to stay on-brand,”  The emo deadpanned then smiled.  “That’s actually how I saw you for the first time.  I was working in a coffee shop when your battle with Professor Phobos happened.”

Roman blinked.  “You’re kidding, right?”

Virgil tilted his head.  “No?”

It started with a shaking of his shoulders and a slight turning of his lips but quickly transformed into a full, body-shaking laugh.  “Oh my gosh,” Roman gasped out, wiping away mirthful tears.

“What?”  Virgil snapped, hackles rising.

“No, no. I’m sorry.”  Roman held up a placating hand, taking deep breaths to ward off the flush on his cheeks.  “It’s just…” He chuckled again. “I guess we really did meet in a coffee shop.”

Virgil couldn’t suppress a snort at that.  “Barely.”

Roman threw his hands up triumphantly.  “I’ll take it!” He grinned. “Looks like it was destiny, huh, Boys Like Girls and boys who happen to be you?”

“Destiny,”  Virgil scoffed the word, a sneer on his lips. “I don't think there is such a thing, and if there is, I hate it.”

Roman blinked, taken aback.  “What?”

“We're not _destined_ to be together, Roman.”  Virgil rolled his eyes. “If we were, don't you think we'd have met a different way? That we wouldn't hate each other for the longest time?  Literally every single possible obstacle has been hurled at us. It's like the universe has done everything it possibly could to keep us apart!”  He looked up at the dark clouds swarming above head and laughed bitterly. “Even Mother Nature is against us. We fought and we struggled just to be able to have a few days together. We're not destined for each other, we _chose_ each other.

“If destiny is the thing trying to keep me away from you, then fuck destiny.  I don't care about fate or meant-to-be or any of that; I care about you. And - why are you crying?”

Roman sniffled.  “Happy tears, The Academy Is applauding.”  He laughed, the sound watery, and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes.  “I thought you said that you don't do speeches.”

Virgil flushed.  “That wasn't a speech.”

“Oh, but it was.”  Roman grinned mischievously.  “You gave me a speech,” He teased.  “You gave me a-” He suddenly cut off, tilting his head.

“Princey?”  Virgil asked after a beat of the hero staring off into the distance.  “You good there?”

“Wha?”  Roman's snapped back from wherever his senses had taken him, but a glazed look remained in his eyes. “Yeah, sorry, I-”  he scrunched his brow - “I thought I heard something.”

“Do you need to it check out?”  Virgil asked, scanning the city skyline.

Roman shook his head, ignoring the smell of copper and something electric.  “Nah, it was just some… screaming.”

He refocused, focusing on the villain.  “You understand though, right? Why I was so… disturbed?”  He frowned. “Still am, actually.”

Virgil winced.  “Yeah, I could’ve said all of that about a million times better.”

“No, it’s not just that.”  Roman ran his fingers lightly over the rusted metal, able to detect every single dip and crevice, to feel the way it vibrated from the noise of a television playing five floors down, to feel the way it bumped imperciably against the building’s bricks.  Below them, the pavement was cracking so, achingly slowly as a weed pushed its way up into the air. He could hear it growing. “It scared me. _You_ scared me.”

Virgil turned his face away, staring intently at a crack twineing its way up through the opposite building.  “I scared myself,” He said softly. “You were right, Roman. I hurt him. I changed him, just like they tried to do to me. I’m no better.”

There was nothing the hero could really say to that. Virgil was right.

“I get it now,”  He said instead. “I don't… condone  it or like it, but I get it. I get where you’re coming from.”

The villain shrugged.  “That’s all I can ask.”  But his shoulders were still slumped.  His leg was still bouncing as it only did when he was even more anxious than usual.  His fingers - long and graceful as ballerinas - still danced over Roman’s stim toy. He was still turned away from the man who cared for him.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

“You know, you caught the moonlight in your eyes when I first saw you,”  Roman said softly, reaching out and cupping Virgil's face in the palm of his hand, turning him back.

Virgil leaned into it, shuffling closer on the fire escape as he snorted.  “The first time you saw me was the middle of the day, when I paralyzed you.”

“Not that first time” - Roman rolled his eyes - “the real first time, standing in front of a hole in the wall of First Pons bank after we had just busted out of a vault together.”

Virgil nudged him.  “What do you mean ‘real’? There's only one ‘real’ first time for anything.”

“Well then, that's the first time I saw the ‘real’ you, not ‘The Savior’ you!”  Roman fired back, a small smile dancing across his lips. “Standing in the starlight with the moon shining in your eyes, so fierce and intelligent.”  He dropped his hand down to rest on Virgil’s knee, squeezing gently. “You were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“Objectification,”  Virgil snarked, trying to hide the flush creeping over the bridge of his nose.

Roman gently pulled Virgil's hands away from his face, lacing their fingers together.  “There's moonlight in your eyes, Virgil. I can see it right now.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to both of the villain's cheeks, right below his smudged eyeshadow.  “But when you told me about… what you did, I couldn't see that moonlight anymore. I was scared because I realized that there isn't a difference between ‘The Savior’ you and the ‘Virgil’ you, just like there's not a difference between ‘The Prince’ me and ‘Roman’ me. You've done terrible things, but so have I.”

The snark drifted away from Virgil, leaving him tired and open.  “You’re a good person, Roman,” He told him, raising a hand to preemptively cut off any protest.  “I know that you may not always think it, but you are. Trust me on that.”

“Dangerous words coming from you, Kaa-fkaesque,”  The hero quipped.

Virgil rolled his eyes.  “I know.” He shook his head, almost mournfully.  “But I’m nothing as gentle as moonlight, Roman. If this is going to work, you need to know that.”

A smile dared to touch the corners of Roman’s mouth.  “Yeah,” He agreed. “I think I’ve figured that out.”

Virgil wasn’t his soulmate.  He wasn’t his other half or his missing piece.  He wasn’t destined to be with him, butut Roman still wanted him, so badly it ached in his bones.

“I’ll choose you anyway, Virgil,”  He vowed. “Every single time. I can’t say that I don’t care about who you are or what you do, but I can promise that it won’t change how I feel about you.”  The smile solidified, settled into place as their hands linked together, resting on the rusted, rickety metal of the fire escape.

“I don’t care if you’re not made of moonlight.”  Roman squeezed his hand gently. “Moonlight isn’t a challenge anyway. I’d get bored.”

Virgil snorted.  “Heaven forbid Princey not be entertained.”

“See?”  Roman grinned.  “Not gentle at all.”

“Ah, yes, I am the most fearsome of celestial bodies,”  Virgil said dryly, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not moonlight!”  Roman proclaimed once more before softening, turning to the other man.  “You’re lightning.”

He was wild and dangerous and mesmerizing.  He was a ten billion joules of energy running down Roman’s spine.  He was unpredictable and stormy, snarling one moment and kissing him senseless the next.  He was the feeling of untapped electricity in the air, raising goosebumps on Roman’s arms and making him shiver with anticipation.  He was the smell of burnt ozone and the blinding flash of energy held against a dark sky. He was a tempest of a tempter.

“What is with you and the space similes?”  Virgil sighed.

He also had no sense of melodrama.

“First of all, that was a metaphor, and _second_ ,”  Roman said indignantly.  “For _give_ me for being able so adequately ex _press_ myself, unlike _some_ people.”

Virgil snickered.  “I know you don’t spend much time with we lowly peasants, Princey, but most people don’t speak in extended **metaphors**.”

Roman grumbled.  “You’re the worst.”

“Oh, I know it.”  Virgil’s eyes flashed mischievously.

“An absolute nightmare!”  Roman proclaimed, rising dramatically and placing a hand over his heart.  “I’ve fall- I’ve dedicated myself to an emo nightmare.”

“Shut up!”  Virgil laughed, trying to tug him back down.

“No, it’s too late for me.”  Roman stared into the distance theatrically.  “Is this to be my fate?” He leaned over the railing, shouting down into the empty alleyway below.  “Attention, New Psyche! This asshole has completely enchanted me! I am totally gone! Throw a parade in my memory!”

“Roman!”  The purple-haired man yelped; Roman let the villain pull him back down.  “Don’t lean over like that,” He scolded. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I wasn’t going to fall,”  The hero insisted. “And it wouldn’t have hurt me anyway.”

“I know that.”  Virgil rolled his eyes.  “I just… didn’t want to risk it.”

Roman knocked their shoulders together.  “You’ve certainly come a long way. You tried to kill me about a million times when we made cookies together, and now you’re worried a little seventy foot drop is going to kill me.”

“What about you, Princey?”  He fired back. “You know my name and everything, but I’ve yet to be thrown into handcuffs like you kept threatening.”

Roman waggled his eyebrows.  “Well that can certainly be arranged, Irene Adl-eremite.”

“Those nicknames are getting increasingly obscure.”

“I’m aware.”

“So…”  Virgil hesitated.  “We're good? All on board-the healthy communication train? No more running away and angsting over our problems?”

“No,”  Roman said, setting his jaw.  “No more running; I’m not running away from this.”  He took Virgil’s hand and pressed their palms together, Virgil’s was cold and rough with calluses while Roman’s radiated heat and was smooth with invincibility.

“Okay.”  Virgil nodded adamantly.  “No more running. That’s good.”  He clasped Roman’s hand like a lifeline.  “That’s what I want too.”

Roman should’ve told him.  He should’ve looked him in the eyes and said it.  Three little words. That’s all it was going to take, but even the idea of them sat like a bitter poison on his tongue.  Eight letters. He wanted to say them, to tell Virgil the truth, to let him know that he lov- that he lo- he lov-

He couldn’t do it.

“I’ll choose you,”  He said instead, hoping that Virgil would understand what he meant.  “Everytime.”

It wasn’t enough, but it was close enough.

 

Inside, the four others stood around awkwardly and pretend that they couldn't hear literally everything that had just happened.

“Those two have quite the dynamic relationship, don't they?”

Patton snorted at Kaimi's awkward interjection.  “Oh, you don't know the half of it. I was stuck with them for a whole day, and they tried to kill each other like ten times.”  Their eyes gleamed, and Logan sighed, resigned. “You could say Virgil wasn't very… _knife_ about it.”

Outside, the hero and villain were done aggressively making out.

“So, hey,”  Katrina drawled.  “Nice to meet y’all officially.”  She strutted over to Kaimi, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“This is certainly an… interesting meet-up,”  The reporter said diplomatically, wary eyes darting back and forth between the vigilante and the astronomer as the hero and villain clambered through the window to stand by the baker.

Logan narrowed his eyes at Katrina.  “What, exactly, are your intentions with my best friend?”

The vigilante smirked.  “Aw, peach, I wasn’t aware I’d be meetin’ ya dad so soon.”

Patton perked up.  “Does this make me the mom?”  They put their hands on their hips, pursuing their lips.  “Honey,” They said to Kaimi. “I know you’re going through a bit of a rebellious phase, but that doesn’t mean- nope feels weird.”  They laughed. “I’m not a mom or a kid; I’m a dad!”

“Aw, my bad,”  Katrina drawled.  “Mr. Horse Sense over there does have that prissy mom vibe goin’.”

“Hey!”  Kaimi nudged her. “That’s my best friend right there.  The only one allowed to roast him is me.”

Roman sighed.  “But it’s just so easy.”

“Are you quite certain your taste in romantic partners is up to par, Kaimi?”  Logan asked.

“She did try to shoot me,”  Virgil supplied.

“She actually shot me, and now we’re dating,”  Kaimi said dryly. “I’m beginning to think that’s how she shows affection.”

“Oh, horse!”  Patton exclaimed before an argument could break out.  “What does it mean if you find a horseshoe?” They grinned, wriggining their shoulders in excitement.

“What?”  Kaimi and Roman asked gamely while Katrina squinted her eyes in thought and Logan sighed preemptively.

“Some poor horse is walking around in his socks!”  Patton exclaimed, giggling.

Roman burst into deep, booming laughter while everyone else either snorted or sighed.  Everyone, that is, except for Virgil.

Virgil was huddled deeply into his hoodie, watching the goings-on with jaded eyes.  A bitter coal of jealousy had settled into his chest when Kaimi called Logan her best friend, and it stayed there, burning into his stomach, making him feel sick.  Kaimi probably _was_ Logan’s best friend, not him.  Why wouldn’t she be?

She was confident, cool, and funny.  She had known him for longer. She had known his mother.  Bitterness coated Virgil’s tongue. He glared at her, wishing, although for what he did not know.  Probably for Logan to throw away his years of social ineptitude, sweep him up in his arms, and assure the villain that they were going to be partners in crime for life.

Virgil blinked.  Okay, bit too much homoerotic subtext in that particular daydream for even him.

He scowled, burying himself even deeper.  Why should he be jealous? He wasn't jealous.  He was mad at Logan anyway.

Kaimi felt heat prickling at the side of her head, and she turned to see Virgil glaring at her and Logan in turn.  A twinge of sympathy hit her. If there was one look she knew, it was that of jealousy.

Before she could think better if it, she crossed the room, addressing him individually for the first time. “Logan’s a nerd, isn’t he?”

Virgil blinked at Kaimi in surprise, and she panicked for a second, thinking that she had said the wrong thing.

“Oh, such a nerd,”  Virgil agreed after a beat, nodding his head.  “One time he made me follow this guy down the street with him because he thought he was Benedict Cumberbatch.”

“No way!”  Kaimi laughed, letting the tension seep out of her shoulders.  “You know that life-size cardboard cutout of Sherlock he pretends that he doesn’t have anymore?”

“Oh my gosh, yes.”

“I’m the one who got him that for his birthday when he was twenty-two.”

Virgil's eyes widened.  “You’re my fucking hero.”

“I DON’T HAVE IT ANYMORE!”  Logan, whose face had been slowly warming this entire time, screeched.

Kaimi and Virgil rolled their eyes in sync.  “Sure, Logan,” They said.

“Did he ever show you his Sherlock smut fic?”

 _“Reichenbach Fall-ing for You?”_  She nodded in mock-seriousness.  “It’s a literary masterpiece.”

Virgil quirked his eyebrow.  “I’m the one who suggested the Watson-is-the-real-killer-even-though-he-was-the-first-murder-victim subplot.”

“Where, in envy of Logan, he pretends to cut his own head off with the book-return slot while Logan and Sherlock are doing it upstairs?“  Kaimi grinned. “I know that we’re both gay, but I think that we should probably get married.”

Virgil shrugged, trying to hide his smirk.  “Seems sensible.”

Logan face-planted into Roman’s shoulder as they continued to gossip about him, swapping anecdotes and cackling.  “I let my two morally-gray, sassy, transgender best friends with a penchant for throwing themselves into dangerous situations and who date Supers meet.  I am a fool.”

Roman patted his back gently.  “Well, you certainly have a type.”

Logan groaned.  “Just wait until he finds out that her favorite band is All Time Low.”

“IT IS?”  Virgil exclaimed.

“To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream,”  Logan muttered.

“And you call _me_ dramatic, Hamlet-it-go-already.”

The wind picked up outside, howling through the dirty streets and shaking the window panes.

Calamity, who had wandered over to the window, peered out if it warily.  “Looks like a storm’s a brewin’.”

The sky was bubbling and churning with malevolent gray clouds, threatening to reach down and knock off the tops of skyscrapers.  It almost looked like a tornado; there seemed to be an epicenter looming over Pons Park.

A faint screaming sounded again, ringing in Roman's ears as clearly as if it were in the same room.

“Roman?”  Patton looked at him with concern, and he realized that he was grimacing in pain, hands clamped over his ears.  “Are you okay, kiddo?”

He shook his head.  “Something is wrong.”

“Seriously, it’s lookin’ bad out there,”  Calamity mused. “I reckon someone with a weather Ability is gettin’ all horns and rattles.”

A terrible, awful, horrible suspicion came over Virgil.

“Roman,”  He said softly, trying not to let his voice shake with trepidation.  “Do you know where the planetarium is?”

“The one on the end of Cerebellum street?  Yeah, I know it.” The hero watched with wary eyes as the engineer grabbed a battered messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“You need to take me there,”  The villain said, twisting his sleeves around his hands.  “Right now.”

“Virgil?”  Logan eyed him.  “Is something amiss?”

Virgil just shook his head, silenced by trepidation.  “Right now,” He repeated, imploring the hero.

Roman tilted his head, eyes narrowing.  “Healthy communication, remember?”

The villain swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the way his skin was threatening to burst open from the adrenaline buzzing under it.  “It’s where my lab is.”

The hero stiffened, connecting the dots.  Before anyone else could speak, he had Virgil scooped up in his arms and was gone, leaving only an open door and displaced air in their wake.

“Um,”  Patton piped up.  “Everyone else is confused too, right? Not just me this time?”

“Yeah, I think we all are,”  Kaimi confirmed.

Logan frowned, adjusting his tie, the familiar motion soothing him.  “I certainly hate to draw any hasty conclusions, but-”

He was cut off by a gust of wind.  Roman and Virgil stood back in the villain’s living room.  The Cubano was grim-faced, and the engineer looked nauseous, although whether it was from the superspeed or his revelation was unclear.  His messenger bag was brimming with bits of wire, metal, and silver canisters of something none of them could quite make out.

“It’s gone,”  He gulped, face waxen.  “The door to my lab was blown off of its hinges, and the machine is gone.”

Roman nodded shallowly, too horrified to speak.

“She tricked us,”  Logan hissed, pieces clicking together.

Virgil hissed.  “I thought it was weird that she would threaten Roman after already poisoning him.”  He released a shaking growl. “She made us look after _him_ to distract us while she was breaking into my lab and taking what she really wanted.”

“But she can’t do that much harm with it, right?”  Patton chimed in, a tad desperately. “It only works on one person at a time, and she’d have to kidnap them and hold them down.”

The blood drained from Kaimi’s face.  “Actually,” She interrupted weakly. “I think I know what she’s got planned.”  Every despairing, frightened eye in the room swiveled to her. “She bought satellites yesterday.”

“Damn it!”  Virgil yelled, clenching his hands into fists.  “She asked us to meet her in the clearing of Pons Park with the radio tower.  I had told Roman when we went there together that it was perfect for increasing the range of any invention world-wide.”

Roman’s chest iced over.  “She was watching us?”

Virgil set his jaw grimly.  “I think she’s been watching us for a long time.”

_“Watch it!”  A blonde woman with flashing blue eyes snapped at him as Virgil raced away from the bakery after a false news report of his blowing up Roman’s statue._

_A woman with long, blonde hair perused the beauty isle of the grocery store the day he and Roman baked cookies together and went to UNABLED for the first time._

_Virgil didn’t see the hidden yellow eyes watching his endless trudge home the night before he visited Doc._

_“Great job, Kaimi!”  Someone clapped her shoulder after her last fake news briefing, and she barely caught a glimpse of blue eyes before they whisked themself away._

_The university campus was almost entirely deserted except for a woman on dainty high heels walking away from Virgil, rounding a corner._

_“Well,” A piercing voice called out over the horde just before the riot.  The masses briefly shifted enough for Kaimi to glimpse a familiar-looking woman.  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”_

They all stood silently for a moment, absorbing this.

A thought suddenly hit Calamity; she narrowed her eyes at Roman.  “How are ya so much better already? Ya were poisoned a couple of hours ago and now ya just ran that fast?”

He shrugged.  “I just recover quickly.”

Calamity muttered something under her breath about unfair distribution of Abilities and possible accelerated healing and stupid heroes.

“We have to get it back somehow,”  Virgil stressed, raking his fingers through his hair, leaving it fluffy and mussed.

Kaimi darted a glance out of the window, where the winds were intensifying.  “I think I have a pretty good idea as to where she is.”

Patton clutched a hand in their shirt, twisting it anxiously.  “You don’t think she already took someone’s Ability, do you?”

She looked grim.  “I don’t think a tornado decided to duck in just for fun.”

“To be fair, this is Florida,”  Roman offered a token protest.

“There is one way to test our theory.  Kaimi, speak of coagulated milk.” Logan snapped a picture of her on his phone.

Roman blinked.  “What?”

“The expression is ‘say cheese’, but I improved it,”  The nerd said dismissively. “What is Ms. Darnelle’s phone number?”

Roman rattled it off, and Logan sent the picture.

They all waited for a moment, breathless with trepidation as Kaimi closed her eyes, letting her mind’s eye take over.

“She’s there,”  The reporter announced, troubled eyes snapping open.  “She has this weird ray gun thing.”

“That’s it,”  Virgil confirmed grimly.

“We need a group name if we’re going to stop this,”  Patton said definitively, cheerful voice momentarily breaking through the gloom.  “Like the X-men or something. Oh, I know! We can be the C-men!”

Virgil choked, Roman coughed loudly into his fist, Logan blanched, Katrina winced, and Kaimi spoke very carefully. “Why that name exactly, Patton?”

They grinned guilelessly.  “Well, the only ones out of us that can fight are Calamity - which starts with a ‘C’ - and two men! C-men!”

“Ah,”  Logan said faintly. “That makes perfect sense.”

Everyone but Calamity chimed in with equally reticent concurrence.  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and sidled over to the baker while everyone quickly tried to find literally any other route of conversation.  “Why exactly,” She murmured in their ear. “Are you playin’ the fool?”

“Comedic relief.”  Patton smirked. “And it’s just so much fun to watch them squirm.  I do this all the time, and they have no idea. Yesterday I asked Logan if he wanted me to give him a creampie, then when he said yes, I brought out an actual pie.”

Her eyes rounded.  “Why are you tellin’ me this?”

Patton patted her shoulder gently.  “Because no one will ever believe you.”  They flounced over to Roman’s side and began chatting about something entirely wholesome and pure.

Katrina stared at the floor underneath her books in shock.  “That egg suckin’ dog.”

“We need to stop her!”  Virgil hissed again. “She already could’ve drained someone’s blood by now.”

“What’s this ‘we’, disagree musketeers?”  Roman arched an eyebrow. “None of you are going into this, _especially_ not the civilians.”

Calamity snapped her head over and pinned him with a glare.

“No one but Calamity and I are going into this,”  He amended. “But that’s only because I don’t think I can actually tell her what to do without getting myself killed.”

The vigilante smirked, satisfied.

“Roman, I am aware that it is one of your defining characteristics, but, just this one instance, do try to avoiding being an idiot.”

Every head in the room swiveled towards Logan, who was standing tall and proud, staring Roman down.

“I’m sorry, The Call of the Wild fantasies.”  Roman squared his jaw. “What was that?”

“I requested of you that, although you are naturally inclined towards ignormaic tendencies, you refrain just this once and stop aggressively displaying such virle habits to let us help you.”  Logan smirked, a scab pulling at his lips. “As impressive as your track record may be, I’m afraid that in this particular venture you may be…” He fished a deck of notecards out of his pocket and thumbed through them, much to Katrina and Roman’s confusion.  “Screwed, my dude.”

“What he means to say,”  Patton interrupted. “Is that we have your back, Roman.  And your front, too!”

Virgil narrowed his eyes.  “Was that one you?” He murmured to Kaimi.

She giggled.  “Just because it isn’t a common phrase now doesn’t mean it won’t be one in the future.”  She caught his side-eye and smirked. “Plus, he doesn’t have to know.”

Virgil nodded, considering.  “You and I will get along just fine.”

Roman wavered, creases forming at the corners of his eyes.  “I don’t want all of you wrapped up in this any more than you already are.”

Logan scoffed.  “When there’s a criminal on the lam with a machine that can drain the blood from a person’s body, I hardly think anyone isn’t ‘wrapped up’ in the situation at hand.”

The hero’s hand came up to rest over his heart, an unconscious tick with which the villain was becoming far too familiar.  “I don’t think you understand how dangerous this could be.” His hand nervously bunched the white fabric, now dirtied and tattered, of his Prince uniform.  “She could kill you.”

Virgil slunk subtly across the room, falling into place by his side.  He reached up and gently tugged down Roman’s hand. The hero looked surprised to see that it had moved at all.

“We’re not letting you do this alone, Roman,”  Patton said firmly. It was the use of his name more than anything else that let the hero know how serious they were.  “You’re part of us now, okay?”

Roman nodded slowly, ignoring the mist spreading in his eyes at the baker’s words.  “Okay.”

“I mean, I was gonna go either way, but this is awful sweet,”  The vigilante drawled dryly.

“I’m sorry, blood?”  Kaimi suddenly piped up, looking vaguely ill.  “What was that earlier about blood?”

“What exactly does this device o’ yours do?”  Calamity looked at Virgil suspiciously.

Virgil winced, darting a glance at Roman, who was clenching his jaw and taking deep breaths.  Virgil swallowed; if Roman could keep his cool during this, then so could he. “It takes the Abiletum out of someone’s blood,”  He said quietly. “The blood exits the body, is cleaned, and goes back in through… whatever openings available.”

Kaimi turned ashen, and her knees buckled beneath her.  Before anyone else could react, Roman rushed over, catching her bridal style.

“Alright there, fair maiden?”  He flashed his signature, charming Prince Smile, holding her gently.

She arched an unimpressed eyebrow, normal color slowly touching her cheeks again.  “Thanks, but I'm a lesbian.”

Calamity cleared her throat meaningfully and held out her muscle-corded arms.

“Ah.”  He carefully transferred her to the vigilante.  The reporter delightedly wrapped her arms around the Katrina’s neck.  “Better?” The hero asked.

Kaimi grinned, flashing a thumbs up.  “Much.”

Logan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Anyway, shouldn’t we formulate some sort of plan?”

Virgil shook his head anxiously, hands picking at skin unconsciously.  “With the machine, she can have multiple Abilities at once. We don't know what we're up against, and every second she's going to get stronger.”  His thumb started to bleed; the coppery stench wafted towards Roman.

He frowned. “Stop that.”  Without even looking, he put his hand on top of Virgil’s, keeping him from picking at his skin.

Virgil looked at him for a moment. The hero was exhausted with bags etched under his eyes, and Virgil was filled with the overwhelming urge to do something stupid, like taking Roman’s face in his hands and rubbing the shadows away.  The hero had just found out that his abuser was a literal supervillain, they had fought earlier, he was exhausted, and he had just been poisoned. And without even looking, he knew and cared enough about Virgil to tell when his nervous ticks started up.

Virgil looked at the other man’s profile - so handsome and so out of place in his dingy apartment - and felt his heart stop. Then it started up again.

 _Oh,_ He thought. _Oh, I see._

He had kinda known before, but this… this clarity was startling. He relaxed his hand and linked his fingers together with Roman’s.

Roman squeezed his hand, softly, reassuringly. Rose petals brushed against the inside of Virgil’s ribcage. And it was a rose, there was no thornless reassurance of a carnation, but if the looming threat of thorns meant that he could have more moments like this - the warmth of Roman’s hand in his own, the spread of stardust through his veins, _Roman Roman Roman_ \- then he could definitely live with roses.

They still hadn’t said “I love you” to each other.  Roman was afraid of the words, afraid of the memories associated with that phrase, afraid that every “I love you” would mean spirling into the oblivion of control and obsession.

Virgil simply did not believe that it was the time or the place.

“Then I suppose we shall have to hurry,”  Logan, blissfully undistracted by Virgil's internal monologue, pointed out.

“Well, what exactly are we supposed to do here?”  Kaimi asked, rather reasonably. “We literally have no idea what we could be walking into.”

“Uh,”  Virgil eyed her.  “Do you… want to get down from there?”

Kaimi was still snuggled in Calamity’s arms, and Roman had produced her a juice box and a pair of sunglasses from somewhere.  “No,” She responded, taking a sip of apple juice with as much dignity as she could muster. “I'm good, thanks.”

“But we have to do _something_ _!”_  Patton cried.

Roman squared his jaw.  “We have to fight. It's the only way.”

“I’m tellin’ you!”  Katrina, across the room, was hissing lowly as she settled Kaimi onto the couch.  “Patton ain’t actually that innocent!”

The reporter rolled her eyes.  “Sure, Kat.”

Roman shot a sideways glance at Virgil.  “What about it, not-very-Loki? Will your villainous morals allow you to save the world?”  He flashed a grin. “Just this once, I promise. Tomorrow you can go back to robbing banks.”

Virgil stared out the window at the ominously swirling gray clouds.  All too soon, a tidal wave of crimson would sickly shine against that sky.  He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He had done this. He had to undo it.  “I guess,” He said casually. “I can always play it off as another villain turf war.”

The hero nodded, satisfied.  “And you, what-a-Dolly Parton?”

Calamity shrugged a shoulder.  “I ain’t busy.”

“I’ll help too,”  Patton chimed in, going to the hero's side.  “I don’t know how I can, but I want to.”

“I quite agree.”  Logan stepped forward to join their circle.  “My skills are at your disposal in whatever capacity they may prove to be useful.”

“Seriously?”  Kaimi groaned.  “Now I’m going to look like a jerk when I say that I just want to go home and take a nap.”  She sighed, rising to stand with them. “There, I’m standing in the circle. Happy? We’re all standing in a circle for the aesthetic.”

“We certainly appreciate it.”  Roman winked at her. He swept his gaze over his five companions, marveling at the determination shining in their eyes.  

“Alright then, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals,”  The Prince grinned, eyes flashing with fire. “Let’s go save the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HERE WE GO! Only two chapters left, folks, and we're gearing up for our final show-down.
> 
> Speaking of said final show-down, due to certain issues, I need to have chapter 21 at least 80% finished before I upload chapter 20. So there will be a long gap until the next chapter, but then the final two will come out within three days to a week of each other.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who leaves kudos, bookmarks, subscribes, and ESPECIALLY MY COMMENTERS! I LOVE ALL OF YOU!!!
> 
> If anyone every feels like chatting with me and some other fans of this fic, come join our Discord here: https://discord.gg/GDQCm2C  
> We'd love to have you!
> 
> and, as always, ROAST ME IF YOU SEE A TYPO!


	20. Local - actually, no. screw formatting everything has gone to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in end notes - some contain spoilers
> 
> Let me preface by saying that I love all of you
> 
> My friends who like to leave long comments (AKA my favorite people) might want to live-react to this chapter

Sevda Nguyen was perfectly content in her monochromatic life.

She had always preferred grayscale, as she, herself, appeared to be seen through a color-draining filter; she was a woman composed of faint puffs of light and thin tendrils of shadow.  If you left her in the dark for long enough, she would fade into it entirely.  

Her apartment furniture was plain, meticulously arranged in a clean room.  The only aspect of her home that could  be accused of being chaotic was the walls, plastered with charcoal drawing after drawing.  Busts of her datemates fluttered beside sketches of the city skyline were crammed against thumbnails for future paintings she always told herself she'd get around to eventually then never did.

Sevda loved her drawings.  She had the Ability to capture a moment on paper, and she did it well.  The portraits of her four datemates winked playfully at her as she passed them by.  Airplanes buzzed over her graphite city as the windows she had carefully plotted out flickered with light.  The subjects in her thumbnails silently gossiped with their page-mates.  

A few sketches of her favorite heroes rustled gently in the breeze from the open window.  The Prince, of course, stood tall and proud, perching on top of a skyscraper as the wind ruffled his magnificent hair.  The Renegades playfully jostled against each other as they vied for the portrait’s prime spot.  Flowers on the grave of Dreadnaught slowly wilted off of the page.

At that moment, Sevda put down her drawing tablet and started rubbing at her wrists.  She really needed to stop drawing for a few hours straight.  These last few commissions had really taken it out of her.

Just as she was about to go fix herself a snack, a golden light came streaming in through her window, bathing her desk in a warm glow.  She laughed, lifting her hands, as if to touch it.  She often tried things such as this, convinced that the invisible, the impossible could reach out and tap her if only she was reaching back.  “Cai gi vay?”  she asked, charmed.  “Quà tặng?”

She waved her fingers, marveling at how the light tingled against her skin.  It was beautiful.  She smiled at it, normally dark, serious eyes softened with delight.

Then, it started pulling her.

She fell from her chair with a shout of alarm as something rippled under her skin.  Something was wrong.  The light condensed around her, and she felt her innards moving without her consent.  Something was pulling at her, ripping her apart from the inside out.

She screamed as the blood began to tear itself from her body.

Her black and white apartment was now colored red.

 

 

“Logan, give me your phone.”  Virgil held out a hand, hefting a hammer in the other.

The astronomer groaned.  “Why must it be me?”

The group (they refused to call themselves the C-men, no matter what Patton insisted.) had launched into action, preparing for the battle with Missy.  Roman was eating everything he could find, trying to keep up with his metabolism’s insane demands.  Kaimi was online, keeping track of the storm and cataloguing the strange instances of a golden light being reported worldwide.  Patton was helping Virgil with the needed tech, braiding strains of solid Abiletum into iron bracelets that would apparently keep Katrina’s and Roman’s Abilities from being stolen.

“The machine works by attracting the Abiletum in your blood, like a big magnet,”  Virgil had explained, fishing those silver canisters from his bag.  “This will provide a stronger pull than the machine… in theory.”

“In theory?”  Calamity had arched an eyebrow.

Virgil had winced.  “Yeah, you might want to avoid getting too close.”

The vigilante was now cataloguing her weapons.  Virgil spared a moment to glance over at the increasingly large pile of deadly instruments on his kitchen counter and wonder how she had fit seventeen knives (and counting!) under her jacket.  It had been five minutes.  She was still pulling stuff out.  It was as she somehow disentangled and assembled the parts of a Glock 19 from her braid that VIrgil decided some questions were best left unanswered.

He redirected his attention to Logan, who, up until this point, had been busy charting out possible strategies to use against Deceit.

“You manipulated me and tricked me into becoming a villain.”  The villain wriggled his hand impatiently.  

“Gimme.”

Grumbling, Logan did as he was asked.  “You're going to hold that over me for forever, aren't you?”

“Just until the day I die.”  Virgil smirked, ruthlessly smashing the hammer down on Logan's phone.

The astronomer made a pained sound, and Patton took a break from braiding the bracelets to pull him to their chest, rubbing his back soothingly.  There were a few logistic issues as Patton was almost a foot shorter than their boyfriend, but it was the thought that counted.

“These will work as coms,”  Virgil explained, deftly picking out a few small chips and rewiring them until he had six communication devices.  “Ours will be constantly communicating, and yours will drop in when one of us presses this button.  They’re rudimentary, but they’ll have to do.”

“You just can’t live without my sultry, smooth voice, can you, Gabe Sa-poor-sport-a?”  Roman quipped, treating the three feet from the kitchen to Virgil’s desk like a personal runway.

“More like he’s makin’ the rest o’ us listen to ya yammer on too,”  Calamity snarked as both of them reached for a com, sliding them into their ears.

“Misery loves company.”  Virgil smirked at Roman’s idginant sputter.

“This is all well and good, but we need to know exactly what we're up against,”  Kaimi stressed, putting on her own com.  “How do her Abilities work?”

“If she kills someone, she gets their body and their Ability,”  Virgil responded grimly.  “She's functionality immortal as long as she keeps getting young people.”

“Aw, I get it.”  Katrina nodded in understanding.  “Ya mean to say that when she keep on killin’, what she's doin’ is perpetually replacin’ the telomeres on her DNA with that of another person, ‘n’ so tha agin’ process ain't gonna affect her like the rest o’ us folks due to the RNA not havin’ misreadin’s when it replicates.”

For a beat, everyone stared at her.

She smirked.  “Biologist, ‘member?”

Logan's glare held a tinge of begrudging respect, and Kaimi mouthed a soft ‘thank you, Allah’.

The astronomer begrudgingly disentangled himself from Patton, and U. N. Owen started to bark out orders, ensuring everyone was prepared.  They ran through his required checks until he was satisfied.

“Kaimi,”  he said eventually.  “As you will not be much help in battle-”

“Hey!”  Virgil protested.  “That’s my platonic wife you’re talking about there.”

“Nah, he's right.”  Kaimi sighed ruefully.  “The closest thing to a fight I've ever been in was that time a spider jumped on my face so I screamed and hit it with my shoe.”

Roman tilted his head at her.  “While the spider was still on-”

“While it was still on my face,” she confirmed grimly.

“Well” - Patton grinned - “I'm sure you made it do a…”

“The world is quite literally ending. Are we currently at a juncture where wordplay is appropriate?”

 _“Tail-spin!”_   Patton giggled. 

Logan breathed out the sigh of a man forced to bear witness to unspeakable tragedies against the English language in the name of love.  “As I was saying…”  He pinched the bridge of his nose, a tad melodramatically in Roman’s opinion and ridiculously extravagantly in everyone else’s.  “Kaimi, Patton, and I will stay here to provide intelligence and assistance in whatever manner we can.”

With that, they were ready.

“Be safe, okay?”  Patton padded up to Roman, smiling to hide their worry.

“Don’t worry, Padre,”  Roman took their hand and squeezed it gently.  “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Patton darted a look over at Logan then back at Roman.  The astronomer shrugged slightly, an edge of amusement in the curve of his lips.  They then looked over at Virgil, who just smirked, nodding shallowly.

“What‘re they doin’?”  Katrina whispered to Kami, casually slinging an arm around her waist.

“Silent communication thing,”  She murmured back, nestling closer.  “It’s surprisingly accurate. If they weren’t Unabled, I’d swear one of them was psychic.”

Seemingly satisfied with whatever answer they had received, Patton tentatively placed their hands on Roman’s waist, slowly raising themself up on their tiptoes.

Roman’s eyes widened as he realized their intent, but he made no move other than a hesitant glance darted at Virgil, who quirked an eyebrow and shrugged a shoulder, smirking.

Patton's lips met his softly, chasetly.  He barely had time to register their warmth before the baker was pulling away.  “Be careful,”  they repeated sternly.

Roman, stunned into silence for a moment, let his tongue dart out.  Butterscotch.  Patton tasted of butterscotch.   “Well,” he managed to say eventually. “You've certainly given me some excellent incentive.”

Patton smiled and squeezed his hands.  “Good.”

Roman, still slightly bewildered, found his gaze alighting on Logan, who was looking at them with not jealousy but an air of faint amusement, as if he was smug about something.  

The astronomer caught his gaze and arched an eyebrow.   _“I'm_  certainly not kissing you.”

“Ha!”  Roman blustered.  “As if I would accept such a gesture from you, get-some-Sense and Sensibility.” 

“A’ight, I still got no idea what just happened,”  Calamith drawled.  “But imma go fight a supervillain now. Y'all’re welcome to join if ya get whatever's happenin’ here sorted.”

“Do me a favor and don’t die, okay?”  Kaimi asked, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

The vigilante grinned.  “Aw, peach, you never let me have any fun.”

A sudden crack of lightning startled them all; the storm had picked up.

“Okay,”  Virgil said.  “Now we really do have to go.”

 

 

It was as they were rushing down the stairwell that Roman suddenly decided he couldn’t bear this uncertainty.

He spoke lowly, hesitantly.  “That was… really okay with you?”

Virgil shot a confused side-glance at him, and he elaborated.  “That… you know… Patton…”  He couldn’t finish.  He was half-sure that at any second, Virgil would cut him off, snarling and shouting about how Roman had betrayed his trust.

Instead, Virgil snorted.  “I can't exactly blame you. Anyone in their right mind would kiss Patton if they could.”

“Ya got that right!”  Calamity called from ahead of them.

“Oh. Okay then.”  Roman wasn't sure why that answer sat wrong with him, like something venomous churning in his stomach.  It was foreign to him - the lack of jealousy, the lack of possessiveness, the autonomy.  He knew, intellectually, that he shouldn’t keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, that Virgil was not Missy, that this was a different person, a different relationship, but he couldn’t.  He was scared.  Old habits die hard, and Roman had gotten into the habit of knowing his partner didn’t trust him, that  _he_  didn’t trust himself.

“Besides.”  Virgil shrugged before catching his eye and giving him that soft, crooked smile.  “I trust you.”

At at moment, Roman could've sworn that his heart started to glow.

 

 

The clearing was silent when they arrived.

Virgil had taken his hoverbike, Calamity perched on the back, and Roman had ran alongside them, but now as they all skid to a halt, nothing seemed to be amiss.

“Eye o’ tha’ storm,” Katrina muttered, staring up at the sickly gray sky with jaded eyes.  She leapt off of the back of the bike lightly.  “Tha worst o’ it ain’t even here yet.”

Virgil nodded approvingly.  “Edgy.”  He eyed her, trying to gauge how well she could pull off a Fall Out Boy t-shirt and ripped black jeans.  The emo agenda and the southern asexual agenda could probably work well together.

Roman wasn't paying attention to either of them.  The smell of over-priced, saccharine perfume flooded his olfactory senses, sending goosebumps running down his skin and dread curdling in his stomach.  “She's here,” he murmured lowly. “I can smell her.”  Anger and fear warred inside his gut.  He took a trembling step forward, then another, much stronger one.  “Missy!”  He bellowed.  “Show yourself!”

“So demanding, my love.”  The voice came from high above them, carried by a strong wind.  

“It was so much better when you were just reading from your script.”

The fighters’ eyes snapped up to see Missy, lounging on one of the tower’s catwalks, far above their heads.  Beside her sat the machine, connected with a jumble of cables to the tower itself.  A golden beam of light periodically shot towards the tower, then into the sky, streaking through the gray clouds.  It returned solid, someone’s Ability stolen.

Virgil’s lip curled.  “That doesn’t belong to you.”

She smiled lazily.  “What, are you going to take it from me?”  She waved a hand, and rusting metal shrieked in agony as the catwalk slowly descended, the tower rippling around it.

Katrina’s eyes narrowed.  She had taken the Ability to control metal from someone.  She fingered her  _metal_  bullets apprehensively.

Once she reached the ground, Deceit gestured at the machine magnanimously.  “You're welcome to try.”

Roman instantly blurred forward, intent on slamming a fist into both supervillain and machine, to put an end to this only to be knocked off of his feet by a bolt of lightning.  It wasn’t even a metaphor about Virgil’s eyes this time.

Missy lounged back, leaning possessively against the machine's copper tubing.  “Like I said: you're welcome to _try.”_   She caught the glare Virgil directed at her and arched an eyebrow.  “What’s that for, Virgil?”  She tilted her head.  “You aren’t going to do anything anyway.”

Virgil tensed.  “What?”

Roman pulled himself to his feet, glaring.  His ears rang.

“This is the world we wanted, Virgil!”  Missy cried, suddenly intent.  “A world where everyone is equal. Why shouldn't it happen? Why shouldn't we make them suffer temporary so everyone has a lifetime of happiness? All the Abled have ever done is degrade and suppress the Unabled. Why shouldn't they pay for that? Why shouldn't we fix this broken world?”

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about it.  No Abilities.  No dividers.  A world where everyone could be equal.  A world where… a world where he and Roman could live a normal life.

Her eyes shone.  “You see it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.  “I do.”

Katrina narrowed her eyes, subtly clicking the safety off on her pistol.

“I want equality.”  His fists clenched at his sides as another beam returned to the tower, swirling around the core of his machine.  “But this isn't right. I never wanted this.”

Deceit snorted.  “Lying has always been more my department, but suit yourself.”

“You’re trying to make a world where everyone is equal but you.”  Roman pushed his mussed hair out of his face, eyes darkening with contempt.  “That doesn’t seem much like equality to me.”

She shrugged, unrepentant.  “Someone has to keep everyone in line.”  Her eyes flashed dangerously.  “Why not the one with all the powers?”

“Missy, you don't want that!”

“Trust me, darling.”  She flipped the switch again, sending a beam of golden light streaming into the tempestuous sky.  “I do.”

Roman shook his head desperately.  “To become god is the loneliest achievement of them all.”

She rounded on him, snarling.  “What the hell do you think you know about loneliness?”  She was shaking, although whether it was from emotion or the massive amounts of energy flowing into her was unclear.  

"You're children, all of you! You don't know what it's like to see the world crumbling around you! You don't know what it's like to never be able to stay the same person! You don't know what it's like to live and live and keep on living as empires crumble around you and all that's left is for you dust,” she spat.  “You don't know a thing about loneliness.”

“I mean you emotionally isolated me from any support system, and no one seems to know my name.”  Roman shrugged.  “But go off I guess.”

Virgil failed to contain an amused snort, and Roman darted a glance over to him, smugly wiggling his eyebrows.

“It's Roman, right?”  Calamity, mildly irritated by the large amounts of dramatic dialogue but lack of shooting things, drawled.  “I'm Katrina.”

Roman grinned at her.  “You really are a disaster then.”

She groaned.  “Don't remind me.”

“Guys,” Virgil interrupted dryly.  “We're kinda in the middle of something here.”

Missy put a hand on the machine, shuttering as another Ability flooded into her.  She paused for a moment, tilting her head before a seraphic smile took over her marred face.  “Oh,” she cooed.  “This will be fun.”

She twitched her fingers, and Virgil and Katrina stumbled back, horrified.

“What?”  Roman blinked at them.  “What’s wron-”  He cut himself as he looked down to see his fist rising without his consent, ready to fight.

As Roman’s body lurched forward towards his friends, Missy smiled.

 

 

The coms weren’t working.

At least, Patton hoped that was the case.  Otherwise, they just weren’t calling.

The silence was overwhelming, pressing down on Patton like they were at the bottom of the ocean.  Unease curdled in their gut.  They never had liked the quiet.

They focused on the other things they could hear - the running of water drifting in from the other room as Kaimi washed, preparing for prayer; the squeaking of the couch beneath them; the pounding of rain against the window; the tapping of Logan’s fingers on a keyboard as his eyes, dark by nature and with horror, scanned articles on that golden light.

There was sound around Patton, true, but there wasn’t enough to keep their attention away from the waves lapping at their ears, threatening to drown them at any moment.  “How’s it going, Lo?”

Five notes too cheerful, one note too stiff, a half a beat too quick - their voice sounded wrong in the gray, storm-filtered light.  They looked up, into space, wondering if they could reach out and nudge the sound back into a better position.

Logan’s voice - half a beat too slow, three notes too stiff, ten notes not cheerful enough - responded before they could reach out to adjust the horribly gray sound.  “Well enough, Patton.”

They were both silent for a moment as each gaged how far the astronomer would take the lie.

“Reports of the light are coming in at a steady pace, albeit at random points around the globe. This could bode well for us, as it could portend -”

“Logan, can you stop?”  Patton cut him off, shoulders stooped.  “Please?”

The astronomer blinked, visibly taken aback.  “Pardon me?”

“Please, just… just stop lying to me. You treat me like I’m a… a child! And I know that I’m not as smart as you or Virgil, and I know that I’m not some sort of supervillain, but I’m getting real sick of you thinking that it’s somehow your responsibility to take care of me.”  Patton laced their own hands together, twisting.  “You always do that. You act like I'm not capable of handling reality.”

“Patton, do forgive me. That has never once been my intent.”  Logan’s brow knitted together as he watched the sadness hang over them like a veil.  

“So, I… I suppose you could say this is a tectonic relationship.”  Logan cleared his throat, trying to hide the flustered movement of his hands.  “Where there’s too much friction between us.”

A slow smile spread over Patton’s face.  “Was that a nerdy pun?”

Logan groaned, hiding his face in his hands.  “I beg of you to not insist I confirm that.”

“That was a real question; I didn’t get it.”

Logan huffed.  “Yes. It was a rather witty play on how the tectonic plates that comprise the earth’s crust are often referred to as being in ‘relationships’, such as the one that you and I are in, except not as they are inanimate objects are we are people.”

Patton just laughed, shaking their head.  “I love you, Logan.”

Logan would never get tired of hearing that, never cease to marvel that his name could float from those lips with such a breathy, delightful sound.  Patton said those words, and Logan's stomach fluttered the same way it did when he was in the true-dark of the desert, staring up at the endless galaxies that spanned overhead as the dry winds carried his breathless sounds of awe towards the distant purple mountains lining the horizon.  Awe was the word for it.  Pure and utter awe.

He abandoned the computer and sat beside Patton, shifting slightly so the baker could lie their head on his shoulder.  “I love you, too.”

Patton could never say it aloud, but they thought it was their fatal flaw to love as deeply, as truly as they did.  Logan would lie again, and they could forgive him.  Logan would patronize them again, and they would forgive him.  Logan could do anything, anything at all, and Patton would forgive him.  Patton would love him.

Logan hadn't even apologized, and Patton forgave him.

 

“Princey?!”  Virgil yelped as he narrowly dodged the hero’s blow.  “I think our relationship is regressing here!”

“It’s not me!”  Roman cried, watching in horror as his body moved without his consent.  “She must’ve stolen someone’s Compulsion Ability.”

“I missed having you wrapped around my fingers, darling,”  Missy cooed, hands dancing like she was conducting a symphony.  Roman bounced along in time.  “Are you quite sure you don’t want to just give up now? You’ve been a prince for so long; imagine how it would feel to be a king.”

“Frankly,”  Roman deadpanned, wincing as Virgil just barely managed to dodge his roundhouse kick.  “I’d rather shave my head, only dress in potato sacks, and never eat pizza again.”

She hummed.  “Used to be that you’d do anything for me.”

He snarled as Calamity jumped into the fray, splitting his attention.  “Used to be that I didn’t know you’re a raisin-oatmeal among chocolate chip cookies.”

Her hands sped up, and his body jerked in compliance.  Virgil was tiring, even with Calamity’s assistance.  She managed to deflect the worst of the hero’s blows away from both of them, but it was obvious neither could keep it up.  A thin trickle of blood streamed down Virgil’s forehead, stinging his eyes.

“Hey, Virgil?”  She yelped, leaping over Roman to land behind him, kicking out his knees.  “Can ya hold him for a sec?”

“Oh, sure,” the villain said dryly.  “Let  _me_  hold down the world’s strongest man.  That seems like a solid plan.”

“Shut ya trap and get on it!”  The vigilante kicked at Roman again as he struggled to his knees.

Virgil rummaged around in his bag, pulling out a familiar orb.  He hurled it, and Roman found himself encased in a titanium-plated net.

“Aw, babe,” the hero cooed as his body ferociously tore at the mesh.  “I didn’t know you were so sentimental. This is just like old times.”

“I’m always prepared.”  Virgil warily eyed Calamity, who was lining up her shot.  “It’s the crippling anxiety.”

Calamity fired, and Missy screamed.

Roman suddenly found himself in control of limbs again.  Virgil hit a button, and the net retracted.

They both looked up to see Missy clutching at her right hand.  Three of her fingers had been shot off.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,”  Katrina drawled.  “I lost a whole leg; ya can go without three ‘lil fingers.”

Missy shrieked with rage, swinging her hand wildly.

Roman, still perfectly in control, grinned.  “There’s a great joke here, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I never should have let you meet Patton,” Virgil sighed.

“Why? ‘Cause they’re too handy with tha puns?”  Calamity, completely deadpan, asked.

Virgil narrowed his eyes at her.  “Don’t know if I should let that one slip my grasp or not.”

“Are you  _stumped_  there?”  Roman chortled.

Then, Missy flicked her wrist.  A metal leg of the tower shot out, hit Katrina, and flung her into a tree.

She hit it with a sickening crunch and fell to the ground, still.

 

 

Esmeralda Cruz could pinpoint the exact second she realized that her husband no longer loved her.  It had been a Saturday, almost three months ago, and she was making dinner.  Luis stepped out of his home studio.  His gaze scanned the room, cataloguing the same old objects that had been there for years and years, the dusty bookshelves, the leather couch, the antique chess set. It landed on her.

She realized that it didn’t change.

He looked at her the same way he looked at their living room lamp or the pencils scattered across the linoleum countertop.  To him, she was nothing more significant than another piece of furniture.

Luis had the Ability to slow time, to make seconds drag on for hours, to take a moment and live in it for as long as he wished.  Although he rarely used it, maybe he had dragged out their time together for far too long.  Maybe he had grown bored.

She tried harder, dug her heels in and tried to hold onto this man she had loved for over fourty years now.  She used her Ability again and again, banishing the gray from her hair, smoothing the wrinkles from her face, trying to please him.  Nothing seemed to affect him.

Bigger eyes, a smaller waist, pinker lips, darker hair, lighter hair - she Shifted time after time.  He didn’t notice.

When she finally confronted him, demanded answers as to what had gone wrong between the two of them, he simply averted his eyes, murmured something about being tired lately, and left.  At that point, she didn’t notice.  She was too busy sobbing.

That day was one like all of the others they had shared in the past few months.  She kept herself busy while he locked himself away in his studio, painting portraits.  A young boy ran through a field of flowers, streaming pink, white, and blue clouds behind him.  Esmeralda, face smooth and eyes brightly lit with joy, laughed.  An elderly woman laid her head on her husband’s shoulder as they sat together on a bench, content.

For some reason, he always seemed to paint those last two over and over again.

Esmeralda stood at the kitchen counter, washing dishes and thinking of what she needed to add to the grocery list when a warm, golden light streamed in through the window.  She instantly shied away.  They may have lived in Asuncion, Paraguay, and not a Super hub, but she had still witnessed her fair share of that world.

The light followed her.  Her eyes widened in panic as she her back bumped against the wall.  Nowhere left to run.  She opened her mouth to cry out, but before she could, the light engulfed her.

She did scream then, a feral howl of agony as she felt something slide under her skin, as she felt bits of her body being ripped away.  Luis ran out of his office.  “Esmeralda!”  He cried.  “Qué-”  He cut himself off, staring with wide eyes as his wife convulsed on the floor.

By the time he reached her side, she had passed out.

When she awoke again, everything was chaos.

The frantic beeping of heartbeat monitors pierced the air, intermingling with the sharp stench of disinfectants and low, anxious muttering of doctors.  Her body felt so terribly heavy, as if she had been filled with sand.  Even with her eyes closed, she could see the harsh beam of fluorescent lights above them.  Her left hand was terribly cold, but her right was oddly warm.

With a herculean effort, she wrenched her eyes open to see her husband asleep in a chair to her side, both hands clutched around hers.

“Ayé, your nap time waits for nothing, doesn’t it?”  Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, and she looked down again, dread and confusion melting into fear.

Her hands were wrinkled and filled with liver spots, tendons sticking out sharply beneath papery skin.  Her arms were soft with flab, and her legs were boney and gnarled.  She tried to reach the hand with the IV in it up to check her hair, but the tubes and wires would not let her move that far.  Instead, bones creaking, she tilted her neck to see what should have been a neat black plait was a frizzy nest of gray.

“I lost it, didn’t I?”  That old woman’s voice asked as her husband opened his eyes.  The crows feet around them deepened as he nodded slowly, silver hair shining beneath the harsh lights.

“You did. We don’t know how, but you did.”  He said it dismissively, as if it was the last thing on his mind, but how could it be when Esmeralda knew it was the one thing that kept him by her side?  “But are you alright?”

She laughed at that, leaning her head back and trying futilely to blink away the tears in her eyes.  “How can I be? I'm stuck with the body I was born into.”

She knew that if she dared to look down again, she would find the sloping curves of her breasts gone, the withered torso of an old man in their stead.  Nausea rose in her throat as she stalwartly tried to ignore what she would find further down.

He squeezed her hand.  “There are surgeries now, mi amor. Doctors we can see and -”

“You only ever loved me as a woman, Luis.”  She turned her head, directing her words as the billowing sheet separating her bed from another.  “And even that didn’t last very long.”

Luis startled at that, furrowing his brow.  “What?”

“You look at me the same way you look at everything else. I used to be able to see the love enter your eyes, and now they never change.”

He leaned forward, gently taking the edge of her wrinkled face in his thin, shaking hand.  “How can you say that? The love never enters my eyes because it is always there.”

She shook her head resolutely.  “Don’t lie to me, Luis.”

“You have been the only piece of luck that has ever come my way for over forty years now, Esmeralda. If you do not see my love for you when you look at a part of me, that’s only because it’s all of me. I am my love for you, and I always will be.”

“Even now?”  She cried.  “Even like this? A decrepit old…” Her voice cracked.   _“Man_ playing dress up?”

“I don’t care that you grew old!”  He cried.  “I wanted to grow old with my  _wife.”_  

“Why?”  She wanted desperately to believe it.  She wanted nothing more than to cling to him and believe, but she couldn’t.

“Because it's never been about how you looked.”  He squeezed her hand.  “I love every version of you. Why do you think I paint you so much?”

Her heart picked up its pace.  “Me?”  Her mouth suddenly went dry.  “All of those people… are me?”

“And me,” he said, “and the life I want to have with you.”  He smiled sheepishly.  “I am no longer a young man, and you… you are neither young or a man.”

She squacked indignantly, swatting at him, and they both laughed.

“I am a boring old man,” he confessed, “but I would love nothing more than to be boring with my beautiful, old wife.”

She smiled at him tentatively.  “I would like that too.”

He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.  She could see the lines of his skin, a roadmap of smiles and frowns and tears and laughter and surprise and joy etched into his face.  For the first time, she realized that there can be more than one type of beauty.

“I love you, Esmeralda Cruz. Todos los días y siempre. No matter how old we grow, no matter what you look like. I love you.”

This time, she couldn’t help but believe.

 

 

“Katrina!”  Roman cried.  The woman didn’t stir.  He muttered a swear in Spanish beneath his breath before calling to Virgil to “Hold her off!”

“Oh yeah.”  Virgil deadpanned, pulling out some futuristic laser gun and blowing away half of a tower leg before it could hit him.  “Let’s let the one Unabled person with the least experience in fighting crime hold off the supervillain. This is a wonderful decision.”

“He isn’t exactly known for those,” Missy sniped, making metal beams pull themselves off of the tower and fly towards her attackers.  Roman just held up an arm, letting the metal crumple against his body, but Virgil hissed and threw a sonic destabilizer through them, watching with satisfaction as they vibrated apart.

“Hey! You don’t get to be involved in the witty banter.”  Virgil urged his bike up the side of the tower, leaning from one side to the other to evade attacks.  “You’re just here for the drama.”

“I’m pretty sure this entire thing is drama,” Missy pointed out, ducking behind a beam to avoid the plasma ray the villain shot.  She pressed her palms into the tower, feeling the lacework of rust flake off beneath her palms and silently urged it to move.

The tower rippled, throwing Virgil off of its side.  He hissed out a frantic sound, pulling up on the handlebars just in time to avoid being smacked into the ground.

“Katrina.” Roman, meanwhile, hovered over the woman in question anxiously.  He closed his eyes, making himself vulnerable for the precious few seconds of concentration he needed.

He completely missed the elaborate maneuvers Virgil took to keep the overpowered idiot from being blasted directly into the sun.

The vigilante's bones weren’t grating against each other, but he could hear her blood vessels gushing.  His eyes snapped open.

Were regular people supposed to bleed that much?

“I’m good.”  She coughed, pulling herself to her feet with a wince and rubbing her side gingerly.

“That is a lot of blood.”  Roman eyed her skeptically.

“I mean, all the bleedin’ is internal, ain’t it?”  She grinned rakishly.  “Last time I checked, that’s where the blood is supp’sted ta be.”

“I’m finding it very hard to believe you’re a real biologist right now!”  Virgil called, melting approaching iron stakes with an acid bomb.

“I got four pints ta spare; leave me ‘lone!”  Calamity hollered back.

“Yeah, you’re fine.” Roman nodded before eyeing Missy with a sly smirk.  “Shall we?”

“Sounds like a rip roarin’ good time.”  The vigilante flung herself towards the tower, lightly leaping up it as the hero matched her step for step.

“Ugh, you,” Missy hissed at him once they arrived.

“Me!”  The Prince proclaimed grandly.

“I am also here, ‘case anybody was wonderin’.”  The vigilante pointed out, a tad petulantly.

Deceit narrowed her eyes - one yellow, one baby blue - at Calamity.  “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

The vigilante sighed deeply.  “Everytime.”  Her hand drifted to the pistol at her side, and a small smirk spread across her face.  “Here, darlin’. Lemme give you a reason to remember me.”

Before even Roman could register what had happened, she drew and fired on the supervillain.  Missy cried out, clutching at her stomach, where the bullet was vibrating, half inside of her, half outside.

A thin sheen of sweat broke out on her brow as she cupped her hands around the shot, not quite touching it.  It quivered under her control, drawing away from her vunerable intestines and clattering to the ground.

She smiled.  “You’ll have to try a bit harder than that, darling.”  Her gaze swiveled.  “And you.  I'm sending you straight to hell, Roman.”  Deceit’s eyes flashed wildly.  “But don't worry” - she shot down a beam of fire that Virgil barely managed to dodge - “you'll get some company.”

Roman, enraged, lunged forward, exchanging blows before she drove him back again.  “Hell is empty,” he snarled, “all the devils are here.”

Roman lunged forward, catching the edge of Missy’s jaw with his fist and sending her flying.  He held up a finger, and everyone seemed to pause for a moment.  “Hold up,”  He practically moaned, closing his eyes in bliss.  “That felt really good. I just need to savor that for a moment.”

“Really not the time, Princey!”  Virgil yelped as Missy rose to her feet, snarling.  She thrust a hand out, and one of the tower’s legs shot out, wrapping around Roman.

“Hey!”  Roman protested, clawing with marginal success at the beam.  “You try being in an emotionally abusive relationship for years then getting the opportunity to punch her in the face and see how it feels.”

“Y’all have the gift of gab, don’cha?”  Katrina fired off a quick round at Deceit, but she just arched an eyebrow, lifting a hand to slow them until they tapped against her skin harmlessly.

“You have no idea,”  The supervillain confided, sighing as she sent the bullets back at the vigilante.  “They’re absolute nightmares.”

Calamity swore, diving to the side, but her injuries thwarted her; she wasn’t quick enough.  Several bullets sliced through her arm before she hit the ground.

“Calamity!”  Roman cried, wrenching himself free from the beam.

The vigilante was hissing in pain, clutching her bloodied limb.  “I’m fine,”  she lied, rolling her shoulder gingerly.

“Here.”  Roman tugged off his sash, gently wrapping it around her arm.  He listened for a moment, trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart and Virgil’s taunts as he took fire for them.  “It sounds like they all passed through. I can’t hear anything scraping against your bone.”

She managed a weak chuckle.  “Ya ever gonna share all o’ those marvelous Abilities with the rest o’ us, sugar?  This is gettin’ a tad ridiculous.”  She tried to get up, but Roman stopped her.

“What do you think you’re doing, Rose you’re-Dunn-here?”  The hero arched an eyebrow at her.  “You just got shot.”

The vigilante snorted.  “That’s cute. Ya think I haven’t had a few ‘lil bullet holes in me before.”

“That smells suspiciously like a tragic backstory, but I could use a little help over here!”  Virgil cried as he revved his bike, trying desperately not to get struck by the bolts of lightning Missy was now summoning.

Calamity wordlessly leapt to her feet and shot off three rounds in quick succession; Missy didn’t even flinch.  She flicked her hands, deflecting the bullets effortlessly.

She smirked at the vigilante.  “You missed.”

“Oh, darlin’, ain’t ya heard?”  Calamity narrowed her eyes.  “I never miss.”

She had shot straight through the support beam under the platform.  With a slow screech of metal, the deck started to collapse.  Missy yelped, scrambling to grab the Abilities Eraser, but couldn’t.

They both hurtled towards the ground.

 

 

Virgil’s already-shabby carpet would be worn completely threadbare by the time Logan finished pacing across it, if ever he did.  He hadn’t stopped anxiously muttering to himself since the others had left, and he kept darting glances out of the window.

Patton was curled up on the couch, fingers tapping restlessly against the com in their hands.  They kept lifting it to their ear, face tense with anticipation for a moment, before it slacked in what was either relief or worry.  Even they were not sure which.

Kaimi’s soft voice drifted out from behind Virgil’s closed bedroom door, wrapping around them as she prostrated herself on the ground and prayed fervently.  _Allāhu akbar, ssubaana rabiyya-al-ala’_ Something ancient resided in her prayer; the echoes of those who had done as she was doing now sang through her, strengthening her voice, but doing nothing to stop the trembling of her hands.

Outside, the storm raged on.

“They’ll call us if they really need us, right?”  Patton’s voice suddenly broke the glassy stillness in the air.

“I’m quite sure they will,” Logan lied instinctively before he caught the way their lips twisted in disappointment.  “No,” he sighed.  “I’m not sure they will.”

“They better.”  Kaimi strolled in, jaw tense. “Otherwise I’ll go down there and kick their asses myself.”

“How are they going to beat her?”  Patton finally voice the question they were all thinking.  “If she can take all of those Abilities…”  They trailed off, an anxious crease crossing their brow.

Logan froze, eyes suddenly widening.

“I know that look.”  Kaimi suddenly lit up.  “That's your I-have-a-plan look.”

“Also his Patton-is-wearing-a-short-skirt look,” the baker muttered to themself before pausing.  “Oh, that's why he's always asking me to pick stuff up.”

“I observed Missy Darnelle talking some variety of a pain killer at that… Ill-fated gala.”  Logan, blissfully unaware that Patton had caught onto his scheme, explained.  “She also confided within Virgil and me that listening to a multitude of foreign thoughts can be overwhelming to her.”

Kaimi's eyes sparkled.  “So if we can get close enough and think hard enough…”

“Hypothetically, it should prove enough to provide our combative companions a much-needed advantage.”  Logan finished, grinning.

“Then what are we waiting for?”  Patton cried, leaping to their feet.  “Let's go!”

 

 

His name was Gabriel, and he and Malik loved each other with all of their hearts.  Gabriel because, well, how could he not? Malik was handsome - all smooth, dark skin and slow, lazy grin that turned Gabriel’s stomach into water - and kind.  He had the Ability of flight, and he always took his boyfriend in his arms, soaring into the inky blackness of the sky until their cheeks were flushed and their laughter was breathless.

Malik loved him because he had to.

Gabriel had the Ability of making people love him, after all.

It wasn’t like he  _wanted_  this particular Ability; not to say he wasn’t grateful for it, but it provided… issues.  Issues like he was never sure if anyone ever loved him for him, and not just his Ability.  Issues like he could never meet Malik’s soft brown eyes without a twinge of guilt curdling in his stomach.  Issues like he could never really know that Malik meant those three little words he murmured when they curled around each other in the stillness of the night. 

Malik had assured him of this before, had listened when Gabriel had spilled his insecurities into the air; they hung there above them like a leering beast.  He had held Gabriel tight, rubbed small circles into his back, hands cool and steady against the other’s feverish, jittery frame.

He didn’t know - that’s what it all came down to.  He didn’t know if he was forcing the man he loved more than anything to be in a relationship with him.  He didn’t know if he was a bad person for letting this last for so long.  He didn’t know what the golden light that surrounded him was until it was too late.

Gabriel was curled up on the living room floor, catatonic, when Malik found him.  “Gabe?”  He asked hesitantly.  “Is something up, babe?”  The nickname came out oddly, wooden and awkward on his silver tongue.

Gabriel’s body was in excruciating pain, but there was something more pressing at play.  Something inside of him was missing.  He felt its ache as acutely as he would a missing organ.  Something was gone, and, looking into Malik’s soft, brown eyes, he suddenly had a horrible, awful suspicion as to what it was.

“Do you love me?”

Malik blinked at him slowly, licking his lips in a nervous tick Gabriel had seen a million times before.  He had waited too long to answer.  They both knew what the answer would be at this point.  Malik usually said the words as he breathed - constantly, gratefully, necessarily.

“I… I don’t know,”  he said eventually.  He was free.

Gabriel felt his heart shatter.

 

 

Missy screamed on her long path down, clawing desperately at the machine.  Another Ability flowed up her arm, pushing through her skin to flow through her blood.

Then, she stopped falling.

She and the machine hovered in the air for a moment as Missy stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.  The fighters below watched her in horrified silence.  “There’s a million different people living inside of me,” she said softly.  “I’m not sure which one of us is in charge anymore.”  Supervillain and machine landed on the ground, as light as a feather.  She licked her lips.  They were bleeding, and the crimson that escaped her cracked mouth was flecked with gold, so much of it that she practically shone.  “I think I’m getting more than their Abilities.”  She tilted her head, listening.  “I’m getting some of them too.  Enough to teach me how to do this.”

She suddenly slammed both of her hands down, and the fighters found themselves crushed against the the ground as gravity increased on them. Thousands and thousands of pounds of pressure slammed against our fighters as Missy watched them cooly, head still tilted, listening.  Virgil felt something in his chest pop, and fervently prayed that it was not his ribs.  He was even wearing a sports bra this time.  He didn't deserve that.  Katrina didn't even have the breath to scream as the pressure reopened her bullet wounds.  Streaming blood flowed from her arm and into the dirt, compacted until it was almost solid. The pressure grew.

Roman clenched his fists into the ground, and, achingly slowly, got his legs under him.

Missy, recognizing his intent, snarled, pressing against them harder.

Virgil and Katrina gasped in pain, but Roman, shoulders stooped with the effort, rose onto his knees.  A modern day Atlas - the fate of the world balanced on his shoulder, secure if he could only manage to keep standing.

"That's almost five hundred pounds of gravity,"  Missy said sweetly. "You might be able to stand it, my love, but I doubt your friends can."

He snarled, staggering up until only one knee was on the ground, then neither.  He swayed as the blood in his body pooled in his feet.  Black spots danced in front of his eyes.  "Leave them alone."

She laughed.  "I hardly think you're in the position to make any demands."  She pressed down again.

Roman could hear Katrina's ribs snapping under the pressure.

"Get back down, darling,"  Missy instructed.  "You're hurting them. That's almost seven hundred pounds lying on top of them.  You're not human enough to bleed, but that translates into one nasty bruise."

Virgil had seemingly passed out, chest barely able to expand under the overwhelming force.  Roman managed to turn his head to check on the villain, only to see a waxen complexion and face pressed into the dirt.

The hero took a step forward.

Missy clicked her tongue.  "Eight hundred."

Virgil could no longer breathe.  Katrina was no longer bleeding out, but that was only because all of her blood had collected in her front.  Her face was purple and swollen.

Roman staggered forward again.

“Nine hundred. Do you really think you can stop me like this, darling?”

“Honestly, no.”  Roman managed a weak grin.  “I’m just the distraction.”

 Then, Logan roared in on Virgil’s hoverbike and knocked her over.

Virgil and Calamity gasped in relief as the world itself suddenly stopped bearing down upon them.

“Logan?”  Virgil struggled to his feet.  “What-”

“We figured you might need a little bit of help,”  Patton explained from their spot by the edge of the clearing, Kaimi at their side.  “We clearly understood the…  _gravity_  of the situation.”

“Is there a self-destruct option on this bike that would take me with it?”  Logan asked the villain.  “I require it most urgently.”

The villain’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  “I value that bike more than our friendship. Off.”

“Hey, y’all,”  Calamity drawled, voice strained as she struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern.  “Nice timing.”

Missy, meanwhile, blinked the black spots away from her vision to see that she had landed at the base of the machine.  Slowly, inconspicuously, she reached up and laid a hand on the machine’s Abiletum core.

“Someone stop-”  Roman cut his own cry off as, around them, the trees shuddered.

A sudden rushing of soft paws against the ground, legs skittering, and wings beating a frantic rhythm came from the tree line as every living creature rushed to flee its home.

A forest is not unlike an ocean.  It stretches out and out and out in a distance that, once immersed within, seems endless.  A forest can grab you by the hand and dance with you, drawing you in with light-dappled patches of moss and the soft whispers of a cool breeze twining through the grass.  It then blots out the sunlight, bathing you in a deep, pure black.  A forest is an ancient, powerful thing that knows secrets of which humanity has only dreamed.  It is a living thing, pulsing and shaking with the life that runs from the smallest ant to the massive sequoia were the insects dwell.  

Deceit had taken the forest.

The sharp snapping of wood bombarded Roman’s ears as the trees themselves joined the fight.  Roots ripped themselves free from the dirt to attend to their new mistress’s beck and call.

The civilians stifled a gasp, shrinking back.

“Why are you all even here?!”  Virgil demanded, digging in his coat pockets before throwing up a sonic barrier to defend them from the brunt of Missy’s blows.  “It’s dangerous!”

“Well, she’s a mind reader isn’t she?”  Patton protested.  “We thought that we could help!”

“I mean we just saved you but whatever; keep patronizing us,” Kaimi said dryly.

Logan cleared his throat.  “Kaimi and I formulated a hypothesis that, by overwhelming her mental capacities with an influx of external thoughts-”

“We’re going to scream at her in our heads and see what happens,”  Kaimi interrupted, yanking Logan out of the way of a flying tree branch.

“Precisely,”  He gulped, eyeing where the projectile had embedded itself in a trunk.

Virgil groaned, throwing his hands up.  “Knock yourselves out!”  He cried, jumping back on his bike and roaring back into the frenzy.

Calamity snarled, throwing her gun to the ground.  “I’m outta ammo!”  She cried.

Virgil pressed a finger to his ear, activating the coms as he slung his bike nearly horizontal, dodging a ten-foot tree root.  “Try to take out the machine. Princey and I will cover you.”

She sized up the chaotic battlefield for a moment before launching herself into the fray.  She leapt lightly from sentient plant to sentient plant, approaching the tower.  Missy noticed, directing the trees toward the vigilante.

“You're doing great, babe!”  Kaimi called.

“Thanks, babe!”  Calamity managed to send a wink the reporter’s way as she swiftly navigated the living labyrinth.

“What, no encouraging words for me, Hans Grubber-for-words?”  Roman called to Virgil, grinning as the villain landed an acid bomb on Missy, who screamed as her skin sizzled.

“I thought my lack of insults counted as complements.”  Virgil slammed his bike sideways, wincing at the heat from a barely-missed energy orb.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works,” Roman pouted, tearing a tree from the ground with his bare hands and hurling at Deceit.

“I’m sorry, do you want to be roasted?”  Virgil asked, arching an eyebrow as he started planting bombs around the base of the tower.

Missy willed them away from her and towards the villain, and he shrunk back, alarmed.

Roman blurred forward, scooping the villain up in his arms and shielding him as the explosion went off.  “I’d never object to anything that tongue of yours could do, Davey Hav-your-way-ok.”

“Including flaying you alive?”  Virgil arched an eyebrow up at him, trying not to let the smell of the sea distract him.

Roman grinned.  “Kinky.”

“Restrain your courtship behaviors to a time when your life isn’t in mortal danger, please,”  Logan called.

“Savin’ the world ain’t exactly a date, y’all.”  Calamity started shooting out the wires connecting the machine to the tower, slowing the beams of golden light.

“Yes it is!”  Roman and Virgil yelled back in unison as the hero returned the villain to his feet.

Patton cooed in appreciation as Roman pressed a kiss to Virgil’s lips the second before they leapt back into the fray.

Calamity’s pistol ran out of bullets, and she holstered it, now hurling knives at the device while trying to avoid the killer plants.

Kaimi nervously clutched a hand in the edge of her cardigan, watching with her heart in her throat.

“Kaimi.”  Logan laid his fingertips on her fist, pressing gently until it relaxed.  “Remember the plan.”

She took a deep breath and nodded at him.  He laced their fingers together, grounding them both.  “We have a mission, do we not?”

“Yeah we do!”  Patton cheered, voice not betraying the darkness lurking behind their blue eyes.  “Come on, kiddos. We can’t let the C-men do all the work.”

“We’re still not calling them that.”

 

 

Caroline Bingley was an excellent lawyer.

Her defense record was impeccable; she hadn't lost a case in over a decade.  She sauntered into the courtroom with a gleam in in eye like she knew a secret about everyone on there and she wasn't afraid to take advantage of that.  She was the best defense lawyer in New York City, and everyone knew it.

Everyone, including her.  She charged top dollar, after all.  Indiscriminately.

“Please, Mr. Montag” - she cut her client off with a waved hand - “I honestly don't give a damn if you burned down that library or not. I mean, no one was hurt!”

“Actually.”  He winced.  “I did do it, and several deaths by smoke inhalation occu-”

“Maybe I didn't make myself clear.”  She cut him off again.  ** _“No one was hurt.”_**   Her voice was melodic and sonorous, pouring down his ears, weaving through his bloodstream, wrapping around his mind.

He blinked at her, confused.  “Of course no one was hurt. I already knew that.”

Caroline hid her smile behind a sip from her coffee mug.  “Of course. My mistake.” 

She had the Ability of persuasion, after all.

Normally it would be illegal for a lawyer to use their mind-manipulation Ability in the courtroom, but Caroline had always been a clever girl.  It was so easy for her to persuade the clerk to register her as someone with the Ability of never having their hot beverages get cold.  (A surprisingly popular Ability, with over a thousand in New York State alone.)  Granted, that meant she had to stick to iced drinks for the most part, but it was a small sacrifice to make when she had some of the most powerful mob bosses in New York paying her millions to get their boys out of trouble.

The morality of the whole situation had never really bothered her. She couldn't bother to lose sleep over it when her bed was covered in imported Chinese silks and her pillows were stuffed with the feathers of some endangered bird, slowly but surely being driven into extinction.

It was as Caroline was walking down the city streets, mentally flicking through possible fake alibis she could Persuade the judge and jury into believing, that a golden beam of light shot down from the sky.

Caroline gasped.

It hit the man directly in front of her.  She stumbled back, startled as something began to ripple under his skin.  He gasped, the sound thick and wet, falling to his knees as a tidal wave of crimson flecked with gold streamed from his pores.

She put a hand to her racing heart, breathing deeply.  It was some supervillain thing.  Nothing to worry about.

He hadn't seemed to have lost all of his blood, just that with the golden flecks.

“Oh,” she murmured dispassionately as the man on the sidewalk before her twisted and convulsed in agony.  “That is rather unfortunate.”

She neatly side-stepped him and continued sauntering down the street, high heels clicking precisely against the pavement.  Her Ability would not be taken.

After all, things don't always work out the way we wish.  Villains don't always get punished.

Heroes don't always win.

There isn’t always a happy ending.

 

 

The battle raged on outside of Patton, Logan, and Kaimi’s small cocoon of safety.  They watched with their hearts in their throats as the fighters threw themselves into the fray, yet only seemed to succeed in battering themselves against Missy.

The civilians huddled together on the ground, hands pressed to their heads as they tried to storm Deceit’s mind by force.  They thought desperately, franticly, pouring every ounce of emotion and determination and logic they possessed out of themselves in a futile attempt to drown Missy within the torrent.

She managed to remain afloat.

It became increasingly clear that they were going to lose.

“It is imperative that we assist!”  Logan hissed, straightening his tie like his life depended on it when in actuality his life depended on not getting impaled by a stray tree root.

“What can we do? This isn’t working!”  Kaimi fired back, shrinking back from the edge as Missy sent a blast of fire - she had fire powers now? Really? - at Roman and Virgil.  The hero grabbed the villain, shielding him as the flames licked at his back.  He endured the fury, protecting Virgil until the torrient died down.

“Roman!”  Virgil’s voice was interspersed with static through the coms, but his anger was undeniable as he pushed away from the hero.  “What the hell? I know that hurt you!”  He threw a small grenade at Missy, who lazily flicked it away.  He flipped her off, and she gave him double birds in return.

Roman winced at the noise of the explosion before ripping a nearby root from the ground and hurling at at the supervillain.  “Just helping out, 30 Seconds before we get blasted To Mars.”

Patton's eyes suddenly widened.  “I've got it,” they murmured softly, then repeated it, beaming.  “I've got it!”

“By ‘it’ do you mean a death wish?”  Kaimi cried, sharply yanking them away from a thorn-filled vine that crept ominously towards them.

“No!”  Patton was still grinning.  It was vaguely unnerving.  “Something better!”

They took off running, disappearing into the writhing forest before anyone could stop them.

“Patton!”  Logan called after them, a tad desperately, but it was too late.  The last flash of their blue shirt was swallowed up by the thrashing woods.  “What are they doing?”  He demanded, rounding on Kaimi. His eyes shone sickly with the first true terror she had seen from him since they arrived in the clearing.  “Those woods are fraught with danger!”  He started babbling, shaking as he rattled off possible predicaments.  “The plants could get them or they could trip and break their ankle and go into shock! Crocs are not suitable running attire! What if they-”

“Logan!”  Kaimi snapped, harsh enough to cut him off.  “They'll be fine.”  The memory of the riot cut across her mind, and a small smirk danced across her lips for a fleeting moment.  “They're much more capable than we give them credit for.”

“I’m aware of that!”  Logan cried indignantly.  “I just… I…”

“It’s not your job to keep them safe. They can handle themself.”  Kaimi’s eyes widened as their barrier began to degrade.  “I think we have other problems to worry about right now.”

“Quite,”  Logan yelped, hastening out of the way.

They were sitting ducks down there, and Missy realized it.  A sickly sweet smile crossed her face as she swiveled the bulbous tip of the machine down to her opponents.  First Deceit fired upon The Prince and Calamity, but their bracelets worked as The Savior had promised.

That’s when she started to fire on the others.

Kaimi’s mind deserted her when she saw the golden beam coming towards them.  She forgot what it did.  She forgot what it could do to her.  She forgot that Logan wouldn’t be affected.

She just saw a supervillain firing a weapon at her best friend.

“Logan, watch out!”  She cried, lunging forward and pushing him out of the way.

The golden light surrounded her.

Kaimi Alvi threw back her head and screamed.

 

 

People got hurt.  People died.

Iris Hulme was flying over the Atlantic ocean when she felt the golden light grab ahold of her.  She fainted, and her limp body fell into the churning waters below.

Chris Xanders had slowed down time to cross a busy street when his Abilities were ripped away.  He couldn’t stop the truck that barreled down on top of him.

Toby Bridges was phasing through a wall when it happened.  Xe didn’t have time to gasp in pain before xyr body was melded with sheets of plaster and rock.

Apollo Sol burned to death when his fire-resistance left him in the middle of a rescue operation.

Cantrice Arnold drowned six hundred feet from the surface of the ocean when her Ability to breath underwater was taken.

People were saved.  People helped.

Harley Hart used his super strength to hold up the falling tree his husband, Brian, had been growing when his Abilities were taken.

Imani Shamoon used their healing Ability to take away the worst of Chris’s injuries before the ambulance even reached them.

Jerico Ryder held back the tides themselves to save a group of children whose teacher could no longer stretch out to hold them all.

Seth Stokes, an Unabled man, delivered CPR to a girl whose heart had stopped from the shock of the blood leaving her body.

Everywhere, across the world, people reached out to save each other.  People helped each other because that’s what we do when disaster strikes.  People will hold back the tides and put their lives on the lines and fight for another’s life.  At our core, we care for one another.

Ours aren’t the only heroes in this story.

 

 

None of them but Virgil had seen the machine at work before.

Up until this point, it had just been a device, surrounded by copper piping and humming with electricity as a golden cloud ebbed and flowed around it.  Its power had been limited to a distant horror that affected other people, somewhere far away.

Now, as the reporter sank to her knees, skin rippling, they could not deny the truth of what was happening.

“Kaimi!”  Logan and Katrina cried in unison, taking the smallest of seconds to glance at each other, surprised to hear their fervor matched in another person’s voice.  Logan scrambled to his feet, brushing the wet grass off of his hands from where Kaimi had pushed him to safety.

A cold knot of dread settled in his stomach.  She had pushed him to safety.  Nausea rose in his throat - half-guilt and half-horror at the spectacle before all of them.

Her skin lost its color, health and vivacity draining away.  Her eyes rolled back in her head as she convulsed, whites flashing wildly.  Crimson tears started to stream from her eyes, not trickling down her face in sorrow but flying into the air.

Roman clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling a cry of horror.

Her body was deflating, shriveling as the blood swarmed out of her veins, out of her ears, her nose, her skin itself.  It wasn’t all gone; enough pulsed through her veins to keep her body moving, but far, far too much of it hovered above her, seperating from the golden substance in her veins.

Her powers were stripped away.

The blood descended on her again in a rush, filling her.  She stopped convusing and lay like a doll discarded by a careless child.

Missy looked away, pressing a hand to her stomach.  She stared at the machine with wide, betrayed eyes for a moment before her expression hardened.  Deceit pushed the machine back into place and, once again, pulled the switch.

The golden light shot off into the sky.

Kaimi was still. 

Logan reached her first, hovering anxiously as he pressed two fingers to her neck, almost sobbing in relief as he felt a pulse, weak but steady.

Katrina reached her next, gathering the reporter in her arms and cradling her like something precious.  After all, that’s what Kaimi was to her.

Logan watched her silently, realizing.  “Oh,” he said softly.

Calamity glanced up, catching his gaze.  “Yeah,” she confirmed, a crooked smile crossing her face.

Their gazes both darted down as Kaimi stirred.

“Kaimi?”  Logan reached for her hand and squeezed it gently.  “Are you quite alright?”

She cracked open her eyes and groaned.  “I still fucking hate blood.”

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Calamity drawled, despite the way she was tracing gentle circles in Kaimi’s other palm.

The reporter gingerly pulled away from the vigilante, wincing.  “I feel like I just got sat on by an eighteen wheeler transporting elephants.”

Virgil made to join them, but a curdle of guilt in his stomach held him back.  He had built that.  Kaimi had… she hadn’t deserved this.  No one did.

He rounded on Missy, eyes flashing.  “You’re going to pay for that.”

“Cash or check?”  She smirked, flicking her fingers.

The battle started again.

It was a rigged carnival game.  They did everything right, tried everything possible to defeat Missy, but she was still the gamemaster.  She had made the hoop into an oval, put sand in the bottom of the bottles, did everything she could to rig the game in her favor.

It had worked.  They could try every trick ever conceived, every sleight of hand, every feint imaginable, but it still wouldn’t be enough.

They were going to lose.

Virgil only registered everything in flashes.  The ache in his chest.  The bruises on his knuckles.  Roman, snarling in the face of defeat.  Calamity, grim-faced but fighting to the last.  Fire a weapon.  Dodge.  Plant a trap.  Watch it fail.  

The game is rigged.  It doesn’t matter what you do.

_"You’re going to lose, Virgil."_

She said it aloud as he barely managed to miss another projectile.  The words burrowed into him, festering under his skin with the weariness and the bruises and the blood.  She was Deceit, but, for once, her words rang true.

The forest came alive at her command.

The trees snarled and gnashed at them, reaching out gnarled roots to bind them.  He had a flamethrower, but he couldn’t hold them back forever.  His bike was crushed to smithereens beneath him.

“Brendon Urie!”  He cried as he tumbled to the ground, scrapes and bruises howling in protest.

Everything seemed to pause for a second.

“Darlin…” Calamity blinked.  “Ya named your bike Brendon Urie?”

Virgil flushed.  “Maybe.”

“Great Odin’s Eyepatch!”  Roman punched through a tree trunk, taking the time to shoot a grin at the villain.  “Is it because you always wanted to ride Brendon Urie?”

“I’m sorry, Princey, I can’t hear you over the sounds of death and destruction!”  Virgil scrambled away from a thicket of thorns, spraying them with a fire-gun.  “The world is ending; I don’t think this any time for celebrity-crush shaming.”

Roman was too winded to laugh.

Kaimi and Logan were hanging upside down from a tree, struggling against the limbs that bound them.  Logan’s chest was heaving, and Kaimi, still weak and trembling, was frantically trying to talk him down from a full-blown panic attack as the grass below them was set aflame.

Logan had never done well with fires.

Virgil made to go rescue them, to scream that they shouldn’t have come, that he told them, but he, too, was captured before he could.

The fighters found themselves ensnared, exhausted, half-dead.

Defeated.

Roman's face ground into the dirt as Missy loomed above him, smiling beautifully.  “It's alright, darling,” she cooed.  “Just rest now.”

He wanted to get up.  He wanted to scream and fight back and hurl her directly into the sun.  He wanted to end this.  He wanted the hero to win.  Wasn't that how the story was supposed to go?

But he didn't.  He couldn't.  It wasn't.

“That's a nice bracelet you have there.”  Missy's voice was suddenly closer, almost murmuring in his ear.  “Is that what's been keeping you safe, pet?”

He snarled at her, trying to move his arm away, but she stopped him, wrapping the vines tighter around him until he was sure he'd be crushed.

She leaned down.  “Let's see what all of the fuss is about, hm?”  She snapped it off of his arm.

Roman groaned, pressing the side of his head into the ground in a fanciful attempt to melt straight into it and away from the functionally immortal, shape-shifting supervillain he had been sleeping with for the past few years.

That's when he heard the thrumming.

At first, he thought it was his imagination, or the pounding of his own heart, but then he realized that he  _knew_  that gait, the rhythmic beating of hooves against the ground.  He lifted his head slightly, trying to see the edge of the clearing.  “Maximus?”

That's when Patton burst out of the emerald forest, riding in on a white horse.

Missy stumbled back, startled, and the fighters took advantage of her distraction to spring free from the group’s suddenly slack ensnarements.

For a beat of silence, everyone stared at the baker.

“Since when do you know how to ride a horse?”  Virgil finally asked.

“I hardly,” Logan, who along with Kaimi had dropped down from the tree, started. “Believe that query is in anyway relevant-”

“They don't actually.”  A new voice interrupted, and a petite person with a shock of multi-colored hair stepped out from the tree line.  “I had to help out a little.”

“Talyn!”  Roman exclaimed.

Missy laughed coldly.  “What's this? Do you think that you're going to be able to stop me with two weaklings and a horse?”

Patton smiled.  “What about a few hundred weaklings?”

They streamed into the clearing from every side - the residents of UNABLED, with Thomas and Joan leading the way.  “Hey!”  The director called cheerfully. “Sorry we're late!”

Joan dimpled.  “You would not believe how fucking insane traffic gets when there's a supervillain on the loose.”

Patton caught the others’ astounded expressions and laughed.  “What, you didn't even think of asking some friendos for help?”

A few hundred stood in the clearing now, and Missy snarled at them, frantically ripping off the cables that connected the Abilities Eraser to the tower.  “No matter” - she swung the nose down to face the crowd - “It doesn’t matter how many there are; You can’t stop me!”

She fired, but the ray passed harmlessly over the mob.

One of the residents, a teen with a purple beanie, just grinned at her.  “We're all Unabled. Joke’s on you, bitch.”

“I'm doing this to help you!”  She cried, a tinge of desperation coloring her tone.  “Can't you see I'm just trying to make things right?”

“This isn't right, Missy.”  Virgil spoke intently, staring up at her.  His hand flexed at his side, and two small orbs dropped down into his palms from his sleeves.  He hoisted them threateningly, jutting out his jaw.  “And it isn't worth dying over.”

She snarled, placing her hand on the machine and shuttering as another Ability flooded into her.  “I’d disagree.”

He smiled imperceptibly.  “I was hoping you'd say that.”  He squeezed the orbs, and they expanded, encasing his hands in gloves.  He flexed his fingers.  A blast of fire shot from each, and he lifted himself in the air, rising to meet her.

A low murmur of appreciation came from below.

“Holy Schmokes,” Thomas said. “That's pretty cool.”

“Alright everyone!”  Patton cried, clapping their hands.  “You know what to do!”

So, they all closed their eyes, scrunched their brows, and _attacked._

The astronomer slid sheepishly to the baker’s side.  “I believe that I owe you a significant apology for quite a number of things. I am very sorry.”

They just sighed, the corner of their mouth quirking up fondly.  “You do, but save it for another time, Lo. We've got a world to save.”

Calamity, meanwhile, looked at The Prince as The Savior roared into the sky to meet their adversary.  She wiped a line of blood from her chin and grinned at him, all sharp edges and flashing eyes.  “We ain't gonna let him have all o’ the fun now, are we?”

The hero laughed.  “Need a lift?”  He crouched slightly, cupping one of his hands.

“Ya too kind.”  She sprinted towards him, and as soon as her boot hit his palm, he hurled her into the sky.  Of course, she didn't miss her mark.

The vigilante landed on the catwalk just as Virgil was dodging a golden energy blast from Missy.  He threw himself backwards, teetering dangerously on the unrailed edge for a moment before Roman jumped the nearly two hundred feet up, neatly tapping him back to stability.

Missy was shaking, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead as her mind was overwhelmed by the influx of thoughts.

“Stop it!”  She snarled at them, holding out her shaking hands.  “Get- get back now!”  Her words were stuttered, her own thoughts hard to sort out through the flood of invaders.

_Fight them - why are we here - I should tell him - this is it - where’d I put my - don’t -_

Roman lunged forward, taking a fireblast directly to the torso, but managing to land a solid blow to her jaw.  He could hear a few teeth coming loose.

Her movements were jittery and unpredictable, lurching around like a video game character when the joystick was in the hands of a child.  Her lips moved in a loop, repeating the same words again and again, as if that was all the could muster the concentration to do.  “Get out get out get out.” _\- this will never work - I’m scared - is that really Deceit?_

Calamity dropped low, knocking the supervillain’s legs out from under her.  She fell hard, body clanging against the tower.

“Get out get out get out.”  _\- leave me alone - I love my family - this endeavor, while hypothetically feasible, is fraught with danger and - why did I let him drag me into this - get out get out get out_

She struggled to her feet as Virgil flicked a knife out of his sleeve.  Before he could slide it between her ribs, Roman’s hand stopped him, grabbing ahold of the blade and squeezing until the metal crumpled.

“No,” the hero said firmly.  “We’re not doing that.”

Virgil blinked up at him innocently.  “Just a little stabbing?”

Calamity lit up, eyeing the supervillain hopefully.

The Prince glared.  “No. No stabbing.”

“Fine.”  The villain pouted at him as the vigilante sighed heavily, disappointed.

_But I wanted to stab - Joan and Marco - I wonder if - what’re they - I can’t believe where’s the how about there’s a did that tree just i hate movpattonisincrediblepeachissheokaywhatarewedoingicantlose - get out get out get out get out._

Missy was shaking so hard it was incredible she hadn’t fallen apart at the seams.  All of the voices bombarded her mind, blending and melding until she couldn’t tell one from the other, herself from them.  Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.  It hurt.  It always hurt.  Every single day, humanity gifted her with the worst it had to offer, and every single day, the sins of the world pressed down on her shoulders.  It was no wonder she was a creature of darkness.  The world had pushed her into it.

She sobbed, shaking under the pressure.  “I'm trying to save them. I'm trying to save everyone.”

She locked eyes with Virgil, who was half-hidden behind Roman’s bulky frame.  She was what he could have been, and, in that moment, they understood each other.  You became what society forced you to be, or you went down in flames trying to resist it.  She could feel herself burning alive, her mind melting.  The pain streamed from her brain, running out of her eye sockets, dripping from her ears, clawing down her spine.

Villain and supervillain stared at each other for a long moment before he spoke to her.  Not aloud, but within his thoughts. _You’re not going to win._

That was all it took to push her over the edge.

Missy screamed, thrusting her hands out in front of her.  Roman instinctively dodged the golden beam of light, searing and painful even in passing, that shot off from her palms before she slunk to the floor, catatonic.  Her hands clasped over her ears as she rocked back and forth on the floor.  Tears streamed down her face.  “Get out get out get out get out get out.”

Calamity leapt forward to restrain her, but there was no need.  Deceit’s eyes were glazed with pain as she whimpered, clawing at her head, trying to remove the thoughts that were not her own.  She shook under the pressure of thousands upon thousands of invaders into her mind.

Above them, the storm stopped.

It was over.

“We did it.”  Roman heaved a sigh of relief, then a laugh of joy.  “Virgil, we did-”  He cut off as he turned around.

Virgil was staring at his chest.  A hole was burned through his shirt, his skin, and his innards where Missy’s blast had hit him.  His right arm was entirely gone, and so was half of his torso.  He looked up at Roman with those impossible gray eyes.  “Catch me,” he tried to say, as he had said so many times before  _(a plea, a challenge, a sly quip before he disappeared into the night; you’ve got to catch me first, Roman; catch me when I fall for you, catch me, save me, help me, please),_ but he could only gasp.  

He fell from the top of the radio tower, dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic fantasy violence throughout  
> mentions of blood throughout  
> graphic injury - skip ‘She suddenly slammed both’ through ‘Roman staggered forward again.’ and ‘a cold knot of dread settled in his stomach’ through ‘Missy looked away, pressing a hand to her stomach.’  
> dysphoria and someone misgendering themself - skip the paragraphs starting with ‘She knew that if she dared to look down again,’ and ‘“Even now?” She cried.’  
> minor character death - skip ‘People got hurt’ through ‘People were saved’
> 
> ***MAJOR SPOILER TW: major character death - skip last two paragraphs***
> 
> join the discord to yell at me here: https://discord.gg/GDQCm2C
> 
> Take the quiz to find out about your ability here: https://www.quotev.com/quiz/11193342/Whats-your-Ability-a-patentpending-Powerless-quiz
> 
> as always, roast me if you see a typo
> 
> the next chapter will be out in 5 days, but that number could get smaller, depending on how many comments I get ;)
> 
> *grabs popcorn* okay, start screaming


	21. Everyone Walks Down the Street (but is less emo about it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings -  
> previous major character death - skip beginning through "Roman did, however, notice..."  
> attempted murder - skip "The baker was trembling." through "Those gray, gray eyes looked up."  
> non-graphic injury throughout  
> self-depreciating talk throughout  
> description of previous emotional abuse - skip ' "Is it bad that even after all of this..." through "Doctor Deceit just huddled closer"  
> mention of suicide - skip the sentence beginning with ‘Among those twenty thousand,’
> 
> Tell me if I missed anything!
> 
> Before I start, I would like to link you to some of the AMAZING fan art that has been done for this fic as of yet. check all of it out!  
> http://mossystars.tumblr.com/post/174997065068/impatentpending-mossystars-fan-animation-for  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BhKpeT4Bost/  
> https://thecrimsoncodex.tumblr.com/post/173846946254/mr-sandman  
> https://royallyanxious.tumblr.com/post/173483374374/wonderful-amazing-genius-right-from-amazing-fic  
> https://royallyanxious.tumblr.com/post/173483486629/star-crossed-prinxiety-from-powerless-requested-by  
> https://agayfairy.tumblr.com/post/174257908197/ahhh-i-really-love-impatentpending-fic  
> https://woah-fanart.tumblr.com/post/174365571349/i-recently-read-a-really-cute-story-by  
> https://virgil-in-a-necktie.tumblr.com/post/174893024351/this-little-thing-i-did-based-of-impatentpending  
> https://impatentpending.tumblr.com/post/175019957215/ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2-impatentpending  
> http://why-things-go-boom.tumblr.com/post/175090225566/why-things-go-boom-i-got-writers-block-and  
> https://agayfairy.tumblr.com/post/175795248047/ahsgshsh-im-still-not-over-the-ending-of-the-last  
> https://mobile.twitter.com/rifff123/status/1019351698299637760  
> http://why-things-go-boom.tumblr.com/post/176351731296/sooooo-this-happened-go-read-powerless-by  
> https://woah-fanart.tumblr.com/post/176402608339/another-work-inspired-by-impatentpending-s-story  
> http://potsu-potsu-para.tumblr.com/post/176406903939/i-drew-more-i-couldnt-help-it-omg-fic  
> https://typical-art.tumblr.com/post/176813585583/as-promised-a-very-long-time-ago-the-fanart-for  
> https://agayfairy.tumblr.com/post/177112113842/gathered-some-doodles-of-my-favorite-drama-queen  
> http://bassacaglia.tumblr.com/post/177170672881/im-the-only-one-who-really-knows-you-you-know  
> https://virge-of-a-breakdown.tumblr.com/post/176955670330/can-i-survive-without-logince-no-ive-had-this  
> https://tawnyevergreen.tumblr.com/post/177708551026/impatentpending-i-baked-a-pie-and-then-drew-the  
> https://lavenderthreads.tumblr.com/post/177780489452/powerless  
> https://patton-croc-agenda.tumblr.com/post/177717637390/this-was-just-a-doodle-to-practice-with  
> http://mossystars.tumblr.com/post/177694350013/impatentpending-i-doodle-your-good-boys-because  
> https://lizardkiddodraws.tumblr.com/post/177635738283/hey-impatentpending-wild-how-my-first-real  
> https://nanyelos.tumblr.com/post/175888775837/and-i-strike-again-with-our-savior-of-the
> 
> There's more, but I tragically can't find the links to them. If anyone else has any pieces they want to do, please show me! I need to gush over all of them.
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who has left kudos and commented on my mantra against society. Thank you so much for supporting me. It means so much more than I can ever say.
> 
> And if you enjoyed Powerless, make sure to subscribe to me as a writer! My next project is a noir logince murder mystery, if that interests anyone. :D
> 
> And, without further ado, let's see what our heroes and villains are up to.

The world did not stop when Virgil Sanders died.

The grass did not stop growing beneath the place where his corpse lay, slowly trickling blood.  The small stream at the edge of what once had been Roman's sanctuary did not cease its babbling out of respect.  The waves on the nearby beaches did not freeze in midair, so overcome with grief that they could no longer bring themselves to keep going.

People still breathed.  The sun still shone. The winds still whispered secrets.  The flowers still bloomed.

The world did not stop, but to Patton Morales, it felt like it did.  They clamped a hand over their mouth, muffling a cry of pain. Their knees buckled beneath them, and they collapsed to the ground.  They couldn't breathe. They couldn't think. They couldn't move. Their only motion was the tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Come now, everyone.”  Logan clapped his hands briskly, addressing the residents of UNABLED.  He had to keep moving. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t stand still for a moment or he would break apart at the seams.  “It is time to report this to the authorities.”

The crowd just stirred restlessly, unsure.  Logan didn't realize how badly he was shaking until Thomas put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let's go,” Thomas said to the crowd. His voice was soft, but rang with power. They obeyed.

Those that remained gathered around, a misshapen reminder of the circle they had formed earlier that day.  They had believed then.

It would've been better if it had been a slow death.  They could've had time to process it, to register that what once had been a whole, living, breathing, life was no nothing but inanimate muscle and sinew.

He had been there and now… now he wasn't.

Kaimi closed her eyes and turned away.

“I'll turn her over.” Calamity’s voice sounded wrong in the stillness of the air, too many conflicting emotions packed into four wavering syllables.  It was suddenly so empty there, with only five of our six remaining. She had slung Missy over her shoulder to join them, and she now hurled the supervillain to the ground for all to see.

The supervillain didn't acknowledge them, curling up on her side and letting the tears stream down her face.

“No,” Patton said.  “You won't.”

Roman was cradling what was left of Virgil.  Thanks to him, the body had never fallen all the way to the ground.  He was only able to catch Virgil the one time it was too late. The one time it no longer mattered, he had caught him.  

At the baker’s words, however, he slowly looked up.

Logan blinked, taken aback.  “What was that, Patton?”

The baker was trembling.  “I said no.”

“Patton” - Kaimi hesitantly put a hand on their shoulder - “are you-”

Before any of them could react, Patton lunged forward and grabbed Calamity’s gun from its holster, aiming it at Missy's forehead.  “You're not going to turn her over,” they repeated. “Because I'm going to kill her myself.”

“Patton,” Logan said softly.  “Put down the gun.”

“She killed Virgil,” Patton snarled.   _“Virgil.”_ Their voice broke, wavering on the space between the two syllables.

“Patton, you will never forgive yourself if you go through with this,” Logan reasoned, creeping closer.

Patton cocked the hammer.  “I’ll manage.”

“Don’t.”  Roman rested Virgil down in the grass.  His hands were shaking; blood had seeped into his white outfit, marring him.  “Patton, please. Don’t do that.” He pressed his fingertips to the names over his heart.  “It’s not worth it.”

Patton was shaking, barrel of the gun wavering in the air.  “She killed him.” Tears spilled down their cheeks, landing in the dirt with a splash only audible to Roman.  “He’s _gone.”_

They pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked uselessly.

“I’m outta amo, doll,” Katrina murmured.

Patton snarled, throwing the gun to the ground.  “Fine.” They lunged for the supervillain, but Logan stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the baker.

Patton shrieked in protest, scratching and clawing at the astronomer, but Logan held steady.

“Patton,” he murmured.  “You’re hurting me.” Red lines trailed up and down his arms.  That, and only that, was enough to still Patton for a moment, but they hardened.

“Then let of of me!”  They howled, struggling with renewed vigor.

“Patton, stop!”  Roman cried. “Look.”

Missy was twisting and struggling on the ground, gasping with pain.  Her body stretched with an agonizing groan, bones tearing themselves apart and knitting together.  Her torso thickened, perfect curves discarded for a skeletal frame. Hair retreated into a shifting scalp, reemerging dark brown.  Shadows stamped themselves under eyes tightly shut against the agony.

Finally, it stopped.  Virgil opened his eyes and looked up at them.  He winced, brow knitting.

“They're still here,” Deceit rasped out, usual raspiness of Virgil’s words tangled with the supervillain’s silky smoothness - a familiar song distorted beyond recognition.  “I can still hear…”

Logan’s arms slackened in shock, and Patton managed to break free, snatching up Virgil’s dropped knife and hefting it in their hand.

Deceit looked up at them, eyes lost and confused.  Oh, those eyes.

Patton trembled under the weight of them, the force of those lightning-gray eyes.  They licked their lips, taking one step forward, then another.

They pressed the knife into the softness of what looked like Virgil's neck.  A thin stream of blood, more gold than red, dripped down.

It looked so achingly, painfully beautiful.  The silver of the knife juxtaposed against the drops of golden blood.  Patton's baby blue eyes, clouded with wrath and hate and fear as he looked into Virgil's pained gray eyes.  The villain kneeling on his knees before the baker, a trembling hand pressing a blade into a pale, vulnerable neck.

“Patton.”  Roman spoke again, voice weak and pleading.  “Please.”

Those gray, gray eyes looked up.

Patton dropped the knife.

One tear trickled down their face, then another, then they broke, sobbing into Logan's chest.

Kaimi, wiping away tears, wordlessly gathered up the Virgil imposter, clutched Calamity’s hand like a lifeline, and led them out of that fateful clearing.

“I should've done it,” Patton sobbed. “I should've-”

“You did well, Patton.”  Logan reassured them, murmuring into their dirtied hair.  “You did the right thing.”

Patton laughed bitterly before cutting themself off at the sight of Logan's injuries.  “I'm sorry, Lo.”

Logan kissed their forehead.  “I forgive you.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie as Patton stepped back.  His eyes were glazed as the shock finally set in. “I believe it is time to get ‘patched up’. Roman, ar-”

“Give me a minute,” the hero rasped.  Logan hadn't known that it was possible for him to be so achingly stony.  The light and exuberance of his face was shuttered off, hidden behind a brick wall.

Logan nodded slowly.  “As you wish.”

He took Patton’s hand, and they left.

“This was all an elaborate scheme to get us alone wasn’t it, Forrest K-lyin’?”  Roman laughed joylessly, talking in a desperate attempt to fill the hollow space behind his ribs, the pit of endless darkness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He padded over to the villain, dropping to his knees by him.  “You can stop faking it now, Virge.”

Virgil did not respond, as he was dead.

“Virgil?”  Roman said softly, clutching his body to his chest.  “Virgil, it’s okay. We won, Virgil. It’s okay, I promise.”  There was no response. “Virgil?”

His voice cracked and splintered into a million pieces around the name he so loved.   _Virgil._  Why hadn’t he said it more often?   _Virgil._  It was a symphony in two syllables.  If you said it loudly, in joy, in exasperation, in a howl to the cold and uncaring heavens, you could hear music playing.  If you said it softly, in tenderness, in confusion, in a heart-wrenching and desperate sob, it fell from the lips like a prayer.   _Virgil._

Roman had been poisoned before, felt the ice run through his veins.  He had fought ice-themed villains, battled in the arctic tundra, faced down adversaries at the tops of mountains, bone-chilling winds whipping through him.  All this was true, and yet Roman couldn't remember ever feeling this cold.

“Virgil, please.”  Roman could feel Virgil’s blood soaking into the white fabric of his Prince uniform, the last of the hero’s purity washed away.  “Please, it’s okay; we won. You can get up now, okay?” His voice trembled; he could sense the last of Virgil’s warmth draining away.  “Please get up, Virgil.” He pressed his face into purple hair, breathing in the scent of raspberries and the sharp tang of metal. “I already decided I was going to act in that play.  Who’s going to throw roses at me now, huh?” He was shaking. “I was going to be obnoxious and throw a kiss at you from onstage.”

Virgil's hand was gone.  He couldn't hold it anymore.

“You were going to pretend to be embarrassed, but I'd know that you enjoyed it.”  Virgil's hair was matted to his scalp, clumped together with blood, sweat, and tears.  “You're the one who got me on that stage, Virgil. You're the one who opened my eyes and made me realize that there's more to the world than what I used to see.”  His words were hiccupped, gasped out between sobs, and yet they would not stop coming. Something about Virgil always had made him open up. “You made me better in so, so many ways.”

The blood was drying, shifting from vibrant red to a full brown.  It crackled in protest as Roman moved, his sins trying to chain him in place.  “You were supposed to be it, Virgil.” He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the coldness of the engineer as the heat faded from his every atom, trying to ignore the salt of his tears grating against his skin, trying to ignore that wretched machine looming over them.  “You were supposed to be my happy ending.”

Desperately, Roman wished for his fairy godmother to come sweeping in, or for the world to stop turning on its axis, tumbling backwards and backwards through the icy pit of the void until Roman could stop on that day a few months ago, when he first laid eyes on the heinous villain who had just blown up his statue.  He would dismount from Maximus, pushing past Missy and the crowd until it was just the two of them. “Hello,” he would say, taking the villain’s hands. “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

But that was just a fantasy.  There was no way to change what had been done.  By them, to them, for them - the world had changed.

“I’m sorry.”  He buried his face in Virgil’s hair.  “Virgil, I’m so sorry. I wish I could undo it, I wish I could change things, I wish I could heal you-” His words froze on his lips.

He swallowed deeply and looked up at the machine looming before them.  “I'll be right back,” he murmured to Virgil, kissing his forehead.

He laid and corpse down gently and padded over to the monstrosity, heartbeat roaring in his ears.  This was a terrible plan. It wasn’t even a plan really, more of a half-formed idiotic notion born of madness and grief.

Healing, Calamity had said.  Superhealing.

It was, possibly, one of his Abilities.

Only one of them though.

His strength - gone.  His speed - gone. His endurance - gone.

His senses would be dulled, mind slowed, eyes fogged.

He could smell the bright, fresh scent of the forest, the soft sweetness of a patch of blooming jasmine, the moldering odor of a pile of decaying leaves.  Across the clearing, there was an ant, no bigger than the white tip of his pinky nail, crawling steadily up a tree. He could see each of its six legs working in perfect tandem.  His skin could sense the faintest after-current of electricity running through the air.

He would lose that.

He would lose everything.

He would no longer be a hero, no longer be able to save people, no longer be a beacon of hope and light for the world, all on a crazy, half-baked notion that, likely, wouldn’t even work.  The entire idea was so idiotic he could scarcely comprehend it.

Roman didn’t hesitate.

He stepped in front of the machine, leaned forward until its bulbous tip jabbed into his broad chest like an accusatory finger, and he pulled the lever.

To say that it hurt would be a drastic understatement.

He found himself gasping for air on the ground, ears ringing with the sudden silence left in the absence of his screams.

Roman scrambled to his feet, shaking.  He swayed unsteadily on his feet. Was this what gravity felt like for everyone else? Oh this sucked.

He toddled forward a few steps, trembling arms held out for balance.  Everything felt wrong. Everything felt so, so wrong. His eyes had been covered by a dark shroud, the colors dull and lifeless; he was even missing one.  He peered at the other side of the clearing, looking for the ant, but it was as blurry as if he was peering through a fogged window. He nervously gripped his shirt, instinctually seeking out stimulation from the fine cotton strands.

He couldn’t feel them.

His heart stopped.

He could barely feel anything.

Roman moaned a low, miserable sound.  It was so, so, unbearably quiet.

He struggled against his own frantic breathing, warding off the signs of an oncoming meltdown.  He had more important issues right now. He stumbled over to what was left of Virgil, almost falling when he leaned over to pick him up.

Virgil’s body was the heaviest thing Roman had ever felt in his life.  He could barely pick him up, he realized with a sickening jolt. “Come on, Virge,” he panted.  “Please.”

He managed to maneuver Virgil's body across his shoulders, stooping from the weight.  He staggered forward, truly Atlas at last. It was no more than twenty feet from where Virgil’s body had lain to the machine, but it felt so, so much longer.

His knees buckled beneath him, and Roman crashed to the ground, only just managing to break his fall with one hand.  His palm and his knees stung, and Roman lifted the trembling hand to his face. He was bleeding. The jagged rocks littering the emerald forest floor had sliced a crescent through the dark brown of his flesh, staining it with crimson.  Luckily, he hadn’t dropped Virgil.

“Oh,” he rasped, clinging to Virgil a little tighter as he staggered to his feet once more.

Finally, he stumbled to a halt, reaching one of Virgil’s hands out to rest in the swirling cloud of what had once been Roman’s life.  The golden energy swirled around the villain, curious, before slowly sinking into his skin and winking out like so many fireflies.

Roman laid him on the ground, as gently as he could.  He watched with bated breath and waited. And waited. And waited.

The hope inside him slipped away like grains of sand in an hourglass.  He could feel it sliding though his grasp, faster and faster the more desperately he tried to cling to it.

“Virgil?”

Nothing happened.

Roman had done it for nothing.

He sat down heavily on the ground, mind and ears ringing in the unnatural silence, and he began to cry.

His eyes were so blurry with tears that he didn’t see the golden flecks of light rummaging around inside of Virgil, sticking themselves in place of cells.  He didn’t see the flesh of Virgil’s torso slowly knitting itself back together, leaving smooth, unmarred skin, shimmering slightly, in its wake. He didn’t see the golden light reform Virgil’s missing shoulder, but not his arm.

He couldn’t hear the shuddering breath as Virgil’s chest started to move, nor could he sense those gray eyes flaring open.

Roman did, however, notice when a hand reached out and grabbed him.

He shrieked, falling backwards.

An amused snort.  “You good there, Princey?”

Roman scrambled back up.  “Virgil! Is that… is that you?”

The man on the ground looked up at him, eyebrow arched.  “Last time I checked, yeah.” His voice was rough and his eyes haggard, but he was there and he was okay and he was _alive._

Hesitantly, Roman reached out to touch him, finding warm skin and a pulse.  He almost started crying again. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil rasped out, slowly sitting up.  “The last thing I remember is that I was falling and…” His forehead smoothed, eyes softening.  “You caught me.”

“Yeah,” Roman laughed breathlessly.  “I did.” He reached out a hand, cupping the side of Virgil’s face.  “I caught you.”

Virgil snorted, leaning into the hand.  “Took you long enough, Princey.” He pulled away and looked around.  “Where is everybody? They were just… Missy!” He cried, jumping to his feet.  “Roman, where’s Missy? Did she get away?” He hissed, reaching down to dig around in his coat pockets.  “I think I have a-” He cut himself off suddenly, staring down at himself.

“Roman,” he said softly, as if it was a revelation.  “My arm is gone.” The pieces clicked together, unwelcome memories falling back into their proper place.  He swallowed. “She blew it off… when she killed me.” His breathing quickened, hand frantically fumbling over the place where there had just been a giant hole in his chest.  “I was dead, Roman! She killed me!”

“Virgil” - Roman held out his palms placatingly, approaching him slowly - “you need to calm down.”

“No, I am not going to calm down!”  Virgil snapped. “How am I supposed to calm down right now? I just died, and my arm is gone, and I don’t know what just happened, and you’re bleeding, and -”  The color drained from Virgil’s face as his own words registered. He padded forward, as slowly as a dream, and took Roman’s hand, staring at the gash running the length of his palm.

“You’re bleeding.”  His gaze traveled from the wound to Roman’s tilted face to the machine looming behind them.

“Roman,” he said horsley.  “What the hell did you do?”

“I chose you,”  Roman said.

“No!”  Virgil recoiled, but fell, still weak.

Roman wasn’t fast enough to catch him.  This would take some getting used to. Instead, he sat down on the dirty ground beside Virgil and took his hand, skin pressed together through layers of blood and dirt.  “I’ll keep choosing you, Virgil. Over and over and over, without pause, without doubt. I’ll choose you with every heartbeat and every breath.”

Virgil just shook his head, tears gathering in his eyes.  “You made a mistake, Roman. I’m not worth it.”

Roman looked at his scraped knee, watching the blood well up on it.  “Yes,” He said. “Yes you are.”

“Why would you-”  Virgil shook his head, unable to finish his desperate plea for understanding.  “Why would you ever-?”

Roman smiled despite himself, tugging Virgil closer.  The villain fell into his arms without complaint, foreheads pressed together.  Labored breaths intertwined, and it was soon impossible to tell which tears fell from which eyes.  “Because,” Roman said. “I love you.”

Virgil gasped out a half-laugh, half-sob, wrapping his arm around Roman and hugging him fiercely.  “I love you, too, Roman.”

Virgil leaned in and kissed Roman deeply, desperate for the affirmation of their words, desperate for the touch of Roman against his skin, desperate to know that yes, yes, yes, he was _alive._  Roman drank him in, grounding himself in the familiar press of their lips, the smell of Virgil - electricity and raspberries and oil - fainter, but still there.  Virgil was still there.

“I love you,” Roman whispered like a prayer, twining his fingers in matted purple hair.

“I love you,” Virgil affimed like a pledge, fisting his hand in the soiled Prince shirt.

They broke apart, pulling each other to their feet, as they heard a familiar voice.

“Roman!”  Patton and Logan, walking slowly under the weight of their grief, emerged from the emerald treeline.

“I’m sorry, Kiddo, but we couldn’t just leave yo-”  Patton cut themself off, a hand flying to their mouth.

“Hey, Pat.”  Virgil grinned, crooked and fragile.  “Hey, Lo.”

“Virgil?”  Logan stumbled forward, lost.  “What are you-?” He held a trembling hand out but stilled, afraid that if he touched Virgil, the villain would disappear like a mirage.

Virgil and Roman, propped against each other, shakily made their way over.  Virgil held out his hand and touched Logan.

A tear slid down Logan’s face, then another as he gripped Virgil’s hand like a lifeline.

“Virgil!”  Patton snapped back to life, throwing their arms around him.  “Kiddo, are you okay?”

Virgil smiled hesitantly, pressing a kiss to Patton’s forehead.  “I’m good, Pat.” He caught Logan’s eye and answered the question brewing there.  “Roman saved me.”

“I see.”  Logan squeezed his hand before stepping in front of Roman, staring at the gash on his knee.  “Thank you.”

Virgil watched Roman, hugging Logan close to his chest and kissing Patton’s forehead, and he wondered vaguely how his partner and friends felt about polyamory.

That, however, was a conversation for another time and another place.

“Come on, kiddos,” Patton laughed, hysteria and joy melding as they pressed a palm into their eye, unable to stop the flood of tears.  “Let’s get out of here.”

And so they did.

 

That night, after the hospital visits and the tears and the blur of reporters and paparazzi demanding the story from Roman, Virgil stared with sleepless eyes at the ceiling.  Slumbering bodies lay around him; his friends, unwilling to part from each other after the trauma of earlier, had all crashed in Logan’s living room. Sleep could not come for him yet, however.  There was something he still had to do, before it was too late. He carefully slipped out from under Roman’s arm, untangled his fingers from Patton’s, and slid Logan’s legs off of his lap. Silent as a shadow, he crept through the door.  He marched through the moonlit forest and back into the clearing, where his creation was waiting for him.

Virgil dismantled the entire machine by hand, melted the parts down, and burned the blueprints.  He watched as the burning paper shriveled and blackened, paper and ink dissolving until all that was left was ash.

 

The world, at large, reacted poorly to the battle.  They were thrilled that Deceit had been defeated, of course, but heavy losses had been paid.  Almost twenty thousand people had lost their Abilities. Only two millionths of the world’s population.

Statistically insignificant.

Among those twenty thousand, the suicide rate held steady at about thirteen percent.

Statistically significant.

The epidemic became so bad, in face, that a woman named Sevda Nguyen started a support group for those affected by the tragedy.  She hosted massive chats in different languages, sharing her own story of the golden light and the support and love her datemates had given her.

She became a bit of a legend among the Depowered, the world began to call them.

Reactions varied.  Pity was, of course, the initial response.   _How tragic for these people who were once like us,_ the Abled murmured to each other, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues.   _What a shame that they’ve lost everything._

The Depowered had not, in fact, lost everything, but people tend to be confused by people who do not hold the same values as they do.

Fear came next.   _That could’ve been me,_ they thought, witnessing the woman in the grocery store breaking down into sobs when her angel’s wings, now dead and useless weights, graying and molting uncontrollably, flopped uselessly around her.

Prejudice followed.   _They’re Unabled now, aren’t they?_ They reasoned.   _No reason to treat them any different than the rest of them._

But that was only some.  Far more of them began to understand.  They watched their sisters and their brothers and their friends struggle, wallowing in self-hate and anger and fear, and they realized that these people were no different than the people that they had loved before.

No one is defined by only one thing.

The Abled reached out a hand, and they changed.

The Depowered took it, and they healed.

 

“But I don’t feel any different,” Virgil insisted to Logan, who was poking and prodding him within an inch of his life.  “My senses aren’t on hyperdrive or anything like that, and I couldn’t even pick up the fifty pound weight earlier! And look” - he tugged down the waist of his pants to reveal the edge of a sharp hip bone, ignoring Logan’s yelp and hot flush - “I bruised my hip on the countertop the other day!”

Logan’s brow furrowed.  “Curiouser and curiouser indeed,” he murmured, scientific curiosity taking over as he leaned rather close to Virgil’s crotch to peer at the bruise.  “Have you had any other bruises?”

“Um, a few, yeah,” Virgil admitted, mentally storing the image of Logan between his legs.  “Bang-ups from the battle, mostly.”

“And could you describe the distribution patterns of said injuries?”  The scientist drew himself up, pensively tapping a pen against his lower lip.

“A lot of my legs,” Virgil recited dutifully.  “Some on my lower stomach, a bunch on my arms - arm.  Just the one.” He flexed his remaining hand, staring at it broodingly.  “The stub is fine though,” he said bitterly.

“And on the… affected area of your torso?”  Logan queried, trying to come up with a polite way to ask after the section of his friend’s chest that had been disintegrated by a supervillain.

“Nope.”  Virgil popped the ‘p’, swinging his legs.

“I see,”  Logan mused, scribbling something on his clipboard with the wickedly sharp point of his pen.  “Virgil, you will forgive me for this,” he said.

Then he stabbed him.

“Logan, what the hell?!”  Virgil spluttered, falling backwards.  He clutched at his shoulder, only for his hand to come away dry.

“Fascinating,” Logan marveled, gazing with sparkling eyes at his crumpled pen.

“No, not fascinating!”  Virgil cried. “Hurtful! Literally!”  He pulled himself back up, eyeing the scientist warily.

“Actually not.”  Logan held the wrecked pin in his hand aloft, beaming as black ink streamed down his arm and stained his shirt.  “As you see, you have vanquished the pen, not the other way around.” He preened. “As wonted, my hypothesis is correct.”

“What hypothesis?”  Virgil subtly started edging for the door, in case he needed to make a break for it.

“That there is no Abiletum in your blood because it is in your arm.”  Logan glanced at what was left of it and blanched. “Ah, your… shoulder?”

Virgil blinked at him.  “So I don’t have any of Roman’s Abilities because they, what, went into patching me back up?”

“Approximately, yes,” Logan confirmed, undeterred by the way Virgil shied away as he approached again.  “The materials to rebuild your body couldn’t have come out of nowhere, after all. I was unsure previously, but this does seem to be the logical conclusion.”

“You were just going to stab me without knowing for sure?!”  Virgil cried.

“For science,” Logan assured him.

“Yeah, because that makes it all better.”  Virgil groaned, hiding his face in his hands - hand.  Only one hand now, Virgil. He winced. That was still taking some getting used to.

“My hypothesis was correct,” Logan sniffed.  “I see no reason why anything would be amiss.”

“Maybe because you tried to stab me!”

“No need to get” - he consulted a note card - “‘orney’ on me. This isn’t even the oddest thing I’ve done to you.”

Virgil massaged his temple.  “So many wrong things just happened I don’t even know which to deal with first.”  He narrowed his eyes at Logan’s vocabulary card. “Did Calamity make you a stack of those?”

“Darn tootin’,” Logan said primly.

Virgil sighed.  “So you’re saying that I have a superpowered… arm stub.”

“And quarter of your chest!” Logan added.

“Can’t wait to bash in crime with my right peck and nothing else.”  Virgil groaned. “So I died, and I get a superpowered square foot of body. Seems fair.”

Logan frowned.  “No, actually, I’d say that dying doesn’t constitute-” He cut himself off at Virgil slouched deeper into his hoodie, distress worrying at the edges of his eyes.  “Ah, sarcasm.”

Hesitantly, he sat next to Virgil on the table, patting his shoulder.  “There, there,” he attempted, unsure of what object he was referring to and in what direction it was.

“Is this because I stabbed you?”  He eventually hazarded, discreetly tossing the pen into the trash can.  “I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…”  Virgil breathed out deeply, shoulders slumping.  “I died, Logan. I died, and… I lost my hand.” He laughed bitterly, flexing his remaining fingers.  “That was kinda important to me.”

He mourned the feeling of Roman’s hand in his own, the cool, reassuring weight of a wrench, the feeling of exhilaration as he revved the acceleration on his now-wrecked hoverbike.  He mourned what he lost.

Logan silently analyzed the scenario and calculated the best course of action.  Silently, he wrapped his arms around Virgil. “Is this alright?”

“You’re doing good, necktie.”  Virgil hugged Logan a little closer, burying his face in the astronomer's neck.  Logan fought a shiver as the engineer’s lips brushed his skin.

“Do you want to” - Logan internally cringed - “talk about it?”

Virgil chuckled, a low rumble that metaphorically caged a large selection of Rhopalocera in Logan’s chest.  “I’ll save you the torment, pocket protector.”

Relief spread through the astronomer, coming out as a prolonged huff.  “Splendid.” Logan brought up his hands, petting long strokes down Virgil’s back.

Logan felt Virgil’s lips curl into a smile against his skin.  “I love you, nerd.”

Ah. That, at least, he knew how to respond to.

Logan pressed a kiss into Virgil’s hair.  “I love you, too.”

 

“I regret every single decision in my entire lifetime that has led me to this moment,” Logan announced, slinking down on the couch of what had once been his and Kaimi's apartment and was now Roman, Patton, Virgil, and his home.  (Kaimi had been more than welcome to stay, of course, but had declined, citing the fact that, between him and Roman, she would never get any bathroom time.)

“Shut up and watch the show, specs.”  Virgil threw a kernel of popcorn at him.

“Yeah, specs.”  Kaimi, on his other side, grinned.  “You're ruining the immersive experience of theatre.”

Logan groaned, slinking further down and covering his face with his hands.  “What circumstances could possibly lead the two of you to torment me so?”

Kaimi and Virgil arched their eyebrows at each other.   _Did he seriously just?_

_Yeah, he did._

Unfortunately, the two of them had mastered silent communication and largely used it to roast him.

“You manipulated me and turned me into a villain,” Virgil deadpanned.

“The day on which you died has already passed,”  Logan pointed out petulantly. “You are no longer allowed to hold that grudge.”

“I had to go to Pons Park to drag you out of the woods.”  Kaimi sighed.

Virgil arched an eyebrow at her. “That doesn't sound too bad.”

“It was midnight; he was drunk and screaming for mothman to face him already.”

“I stand corrected.”

Logan groaned, burying his face in his hands.  “Surely those two infractions do not equate to such extreme torture.”

“You stabbed me with a pen.”

“You hacked my twitter to thirst at Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Virgil slung an arm around Logan's shoulders, forcing him to look up.  “You keep texting me at three a.m. to wax poetic about how pretty Patton is.”

“As if you are not still up and browsing Tumblr at that hour!”

Kaimi snorted.  “Consider yourself lucky,” she confided to Virgil.  “He barged into my room to do that.”

“Howdy, y’all.”  Calamity, standing at the front of the room with a wry grin, interrupted, throwing Logan from the frying pan of roasting and into the fire itself.  “It is my absolute pleasure ta present y'all with the greatest literary mast’apiece of our time, showcased live for ya enjoyment, but mostly embarrassment.  Might I present: Reichenbach Fall-ing for you!”

Virgil and Kaimi applauded enthusiastically as Patton, in a deerstalker and with a pink wristband shining on her wrist, and Roman, in a tie and glasses, stepped out of Logan's room.

“Logan Abbott” - Roman began reciting dramatically from the obscenely thick manuscript decorated with hearts and rainbows in his hands - “was widely known as the most superior patron the Gyrus Public Library had to offer.”

He deepened his tone in a surprisingly accurate depiction of Logan's voice.  "’How utterly tragic that I have read through almost all of these detective novels.’” He sighed dramatically, throwing a hand against his forehead.  “Nothing holds a challenge for me anymore.”

“Well that certainly can’t be true.” Patton managed to slightly tamp down her grin, trying out her best british accent.  “After all, if that was so, I highly doubt this encounter would ever come to pass.” She switched back into her usual voice.  “A tall, strange man, resplendent in a trenchcoat and scarf lounged against the stacks.”

“Jolts of oxytocin, beta-endorphin and prolactin flooded Logan’s endocrine system as he gazed up at him,”  Roman took over, grinning. “‘I’m sorry, are we acquainted?’ he asked, holding out a hand, as manners required.”

“The man snorted. ‘No, I’m quite sure I’d never forget meeting someone like you’.  He tilted his head, devouring Logan with the galaxies trapped in his eyes. ‘The name is Sherlock Holmes.’ He took Logan’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. ‘And you are a physicist who frequents this library but have yet to find a book that challenges you.’”

“‘An astronomer actually,’ Logan fired back. ‘But I think you’ll be challenge enough.’”  Roman paused for dramatic effect. “And then they started making out.”

“Wow,” Calamity drawled.  “That went from one ta a hun’drid real quick there.”

Logan stuck his nose in the air.  “All subsequent plot points required the attraction to be in place.  It was only logical.”

Kaimi and Virgil made eye contact and sighed fondly in unison.  “Sure, Logan.”

Half an hour later, Patton had Roman pinned up against the wall, snarling.  “Confess, Logan.” The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that Patton had to stand on a chair to make it seem like she was taller than Roman, but suspension of disbelief and all that.  “I know you murdered Watson.”

Katrina, the only one of them who hadn’t read the full story, gasped, shoving a hand of popcorn in her mouth.  “Naw, he wouldn’t!”

Kaimi grinned.  “But are you sure about that?”

Calamity’s eyes widened, and Logan couldn’t help a small thrill of pride, quickly dispersed by something else entirely as Patton tilted her hips just-so and caught his eye with a wink.

A flush crept to Logan’s cheeks, and she beguiled him, running her tongue over her lips and catching his eye as the baker delivered the final lines of the scene.  “You infuriate me, Logan. How am I supposed to feel this way for a murderer?”

“I didn’t do it!”  Roman protested. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill anyone.”

Patton shook her head.  “As the case stands now, I’m only sure of two things. One: that all the evidence points to you.”

“And two?”  Roman asked, voice trembling.

Patton smiled impercibly.  “That I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I laid eyes on you.”  She pressed their lips together, breaking character to smile.

Virgil wolf-whistled, grinning, as Patton and Roman kissed for an unnecessarily long time.  Logan rolled his eyes, but a strange, warm feeling settled in his stomach at the sight. Must’ve been the new mint tea Kaimi had brought over.

“And end scene!”  Roman pulled away and flung off his glasses, yanking on his tie distastefully.  “Honestly, My Immortal-ly dull companion, how do you wear these things? I felt like I was being strangled.”

“Professionalism,” Logan responded as stiffly as he could, what with Patton slowly pushing that trenchcoat off of her shoulders, wide doe eyes gazing at him.

“Bondage kink,” Virgil corrected, sending Kaimi into a fit of laughter.

Patton listened to Virgil with her head tilted, then casually wrapped the sleeves of the trench coat around her wrists.

Logan made a strangled sound, sending a brilliant, innocent smile across Patton’s freckled face.  “You okay there, Lo?”

“Quite fine, Patton. Thank you.”  He sat ramrod straight, obstinately looking away.

“He’s just embarrassed,” Kaimi unwittingly rescued him.  “Honestly, I never thought that story would see the light of day.”

“Yes, well.”  Logan adjusted his tie, gratefully taking the out.  “I’m simply glad this ridiculous exercise is over.”

Patton sighed despondently, batting mascaraed eyelashes at him and biting a glossy lower lip.  Logan nearly missed what Roman said next.

“Oh, but it’s not over.”  The Cheshire Cat’s self-esteem would’ve been completely wrecked by Roman’s grin.  “I’ve been talking to Calypso at the theatre, and she agreed that this is a wonderful story.”

Cold dread crept over Logan.  “What’s your game, you malodorous scent-urian?”

“Dance Dance Revolution, but that’s irrelevant.”  He waved a hand airily. “You see, not-so-Noble Sissle, we at the Corpus Theatre have decided -”

“Oh no.”

“-that such a marvelous story-”

“Please do not.”

“-is very worthy of being adapted-”

“If you utter what I fear you are poised to speak-”

“-into a musical!”

“And you’re dead to me.”  Logan slunk down on the couch as, around him, the rest of the terrible, heinous, cruel people that had unwittingly become his family burst out into excitement.

They pressed Roman for details, asking him for snippets of the songs - which he was more than willing to sing - and information about the production.

He was hiding on the sofa, trying to make himself as small as possible, but despite the hot flush on his cheeks, Logan couldn't help a smile.

Especially when, after everyone else had left, Patton still had the deerstalker.

 

Virgil had tried to talk him out of this, but Roman had been adamant.  “It’s just something I have to do,” he had explained, running a shaking hand through his hair.  “I need to…” He had sighed, a bitter smile dancing on the corners of his lips. “I need closure, I guess.”

They had been told to expect him, but that didn’t stop the guards at the Mens Rea Mental Hospital from widening their eyes and shuffling awkwardly as the man who was once their hero approached.  He wasn’t sure which was worse - those who still looked at him as a god, or those who saw him for the broken man he was.

“He’s this way.”  A guard with a physique to rival his own and eyes that glowed a soft pink led him down a labyrinth of white hallways.  Roman winced at the reminder of another perfectly white place.

Finally, they ended up in a large room, adorned only with a cot and a thick panel of glass that seperated Roman from what was once Missy.  He fought down the instantaneous jolt of pain and panic that hit him, breathing like Virgil had once shown him.

“I’ll be right outside,” the guard nodded at him before leaving.

Roman slid down the glass wall until they were almost face-to-face, separated by the reinforced panel.  “Hello.” He crouched and considered the pitiful creature in front of him.

Missy- Doctor Deceit- Roman didn’t even know what to call the thing in front of him anymore.  The thing didn’t bother to respond, huddled into a miserable ball as thousands upon thousands of voices tormented him.  His chapped lips moved, cracking and bleeding as he muttered senselessly. Greasy hair hung in his face; Roman was grateful for that.  He didn’t know if he could bear to see Virgil’s handsome face staring back at him from this sterile white tomb.

“Is it bad that even after all of this, I still don’t know how to feel about you?”  Roman huffed out a laugh, sitting down and crossing his legs. “You abused me and terrorized me and left me afraid to say the word ‘love’, but I still wouldn’t let them kill you.”  He pressed a hand against the glass; a few weeks ago, he could’ve shattered it with less than a touch, but now it proved impenetrable. His old life was sealed away, but he could still see it, sitting there with chapped lips and haunted eyes, brimming with power.  “I… I don’t miss you, but…” He pulled his hand back, frowning at the mark left behind. “I don’t know what to do with myself without you. It’s terrifying. Day after day you told me that I couldn’t make decisions for myself, and now I’m scared to. I can’t trust myself because of you.”

He averted his eyes, closing them.  Missy’s face came to mind - pale skin, red lips, shining blue eyes.  His heart tried to claw out of his chest, ripping itself in half in the process.  “You were the first person I fell in love with. Did you know that?” Roman pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, wiping away the moisture that gathered there.  “Out of necessity, out of need, out of want, but it was still love. God, I loved you.”

He tightened his jaw, pulling his hands away and forcing himself to glare through the glass.  “You didn't deserve any of it. Not one bit. I gave myself to you. I gave you everything, and I was grateful for the tiniest bit of affection. You gave me panic attacks, and I called it love.”

Doctor Deceit just huddled closer into himself, hands tugging at at his dull brown hair.  Clumps of it came out under his grip.

“But you know what?” Roman shifted forward until his nose was almost pressed against the glass.  “I'm out here, and you're in there. And you're not alone in there, are you?”

He managed a smile, all sharp edges and teeth.  “You got too greedy, and you took too much. I’m pretty sure there’s more Abiletum in your system than blood now. You stole from all of those people, but they’re still giving you something - their thoughts. You forged this bond with twenty thousand people, and now they’re all screaming inside of your head. You can hardly think for yourself now, can you?”

Deceit’s lips were macabre displays - cracked with blood more golden than red streaming down his chin.  It stained his white clothes, dripping molten sunlight into this place of blinding brightness.

“I’m going to be fine, Missy,” Roman said, “and you’re going to be stuck here for a very long time.  Every day, you get to hear the thoughts of everyone you hurt. Every day, you get to drown in them. Every single miserable day until you finally get the thing you’ve been running away from - you get to die. What do you think about that?”

Deceit just shivered, a low, keening moan escaping his throat.   _Get out get out get out get out._

Roman nodded briefly, swallowing down the lump of misery that rose in his throat.  “I don’t know what I expected.” He rose to his feet and turned away before a familiar voice, creaking and painful to hear, rasped out.

“Don’t worry.”  Roman to see the thing wearing Virgil’s face lift his head and smile at him - a beautiful smile that filled him with horror as he looked at him warmly through the gray eyes the actor so loved.  “You’ve seen the last of me.”

 

They were the only ones who knew what had really happened in that clearing.  The rest of the world seemed to be satisfied - well, not satisfied; riots had almost broken out when they discovered that Their Prince’s Abilities had been taken - with the almost entirely true report they had manufactured for the media.

They kept it simple; Kaimi had been leary of relegating any false facts, but agreed that it was for the best if a few facts were altered, just slightly.  As far as the world knew, the events of the clearing (or, the Battle of the Powers, as history books would one day refer to it as) had occurred like this: The Prince, along with the heroic vigilante Calamity - at this point several girls in the history classroom would swoon - had uncovered an imminent attack by Doctor Deceit.  The Prince had recently discovered that the woman he loved, Missy Darnelle, had been killed by the villain who had then assumed her place. Calamity and The Prince, along with The Savior, who was known to engage in turf wars with other villains, confronted Deceit. A local civilian whose name was lost to time found Deceit’s weakness and led an army of Unabled in a mental attack.  Before Deceit was defeated, however, the supervillain took The Prince’s Abilities and grievously wounded The Savior. Calamity struck the fatal blow, and ended Deceit’s reign of terror forever.

The Savior was placed in a mental hospital, never able to recover from the trauma of his injuries.

There were still whispers, however.  Whispers of a love shunned by society.  Whispers of a villain and a hero who, despite it all, fell for each other.  Whispers that they caught each other when it mattered most. Whispers of a man who sacrificed everything for the one that he loved.  

Whispers that the story didn’t make sense.  Whispers that Deceit’s body was never found.

They were mostly ignored.  They were only whispers, after all.

Thus, The Prince and The Savior died.

Thus, Roman and Virgil lived.

 

“Roman!” Patton shrieked, clutching himself in fright as his blue wristband encased his arm.  “Roman, save me!”

Roman practically kicked down the door, skidding into the room at top speed to come to his fair companion’s aid.  “Patton?!” He cried. “What's wron-” He cut himself of, narrowing his eyes as he caught sight of his adversary. “You,” he hissed venomously. “I thought we'd seen the last of you.”

He positioned himself between the baker and that dreaded villain, lips curled into a snarl.  Patton whimpered, clutching the back of his hero's pink shirt. “He wants to hurt me, Roman. I just know it.”

“Ha!”  The hero scoffed.  “He'll have to get through me first.”  He reached back, grasping Patton's pudgy hand for a moment before advancing forward.  “Come forth, foulest of creatures! Come forth and engage me in combat, monster!”

“He's so brave,” Patton whispered, tears of terror and admiration shining in his blue eyes.

Logan sighed heavily from his position in their bedroom armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It's just a spider, Patton.”

“It is a creepy, crawly death-dealer, Logan!”  Patton cried, huddling up on top of the low-slung dresser, as if even adhesion to the floor would render him vulnerable.

“Fear not, Patton!”  Roman proclaimed, brandishing his weapons - a cup and a piece of paper.  “Soon this miscreant shall be turned out onto the streets where he belongs, never to plague the sight of your beautiful eyes again.”

“Why didn’t pocket protector just get it?”  A low voice asked, and Patton lit up at the sight of his strange, dark son, lounging in the doorway with an amused gleam in those eyes.

“Virge!”  He exclaimed, smiling.  “Kiddo, can't you make me something to keep the creepy crawlies away?”  He shuddered. “They're everywhere.”

Virgil smiled, too wide and too sharp to be real.  “Aw, Pat. You know I don't build stuff anymore.”

He studiously ignored the way the others looked at each other, concern and pity brimming in their eyes.  His lip curled. He didn’t need their pitty. He was fine. The last time he had built something, so, so many people had been hurt.  Roman and Kaimi had lost everything.

It was better for everyone if he didn’t.

“Seriously through, Logan.” Virgil snapped them all out of it.  “Your datemate is in distress. Step up your game, man.”

In lieu of a response, Logan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wincing at the movement.

“Oh.”  Virgil softened as Roman pounced on the spider, safely scooping it up.  “Bad back day?”

Logan latched onto it.  “Yes. That is the one and only reason I am physically less than optimal today.”

Patton narrowed his eyes at the astronomer.  “Logan.”

His eyes widened, alarmed.  “Yes, Patton?”

“I thought you said you’d tell me if I was being too rough with you!”

Virgil failed to stifle a snort of laughter, and Roman grinned lecherously.

Logan tilted his head back, looked at the ceiling, and tried to will an asteroid strike into existence.

Later, Patton would text Calamity an account of the incident.  She would rush to Kaimi, desperate to finally prove that Patton wasn’t, in fact, innocent at all, but the texts would mysteriously vanish on her way over.

The words to describe her subsequent rage have yet to be invented.

“Yeah, Logan,”  Roman, heading his way with a wide, cocky smirk, repeated.  “Healthy communication is important for all experimenting couples.”

“I will never accept advice about healthy communication from the man who had to be trapped in a vault to talk about his feelings,” Logan retorted.  “Also, if that spider is venomous, I’d greatly appreciate it biting me.”

“No chance of that, Les Miserable.”  Roman safely slipped the spider onto the windowsill, latching it closed behind the creature.  “There you are, fair Patton! It shall do you no more harm.”

Patton giggled, wrapping his arms around Roman’s torso.  “My hero.”

Roman’s chest froze at the words, but he managed a hearty chuckle, picking up Patton and spinning him around.  “At your service, my liege.” He pressed a kiss to Patton’s forehead, trying to keep him from seeing the tears in his eyes.

He missed it.

Roman missed being a true hero.

Not to say that he regretted his decision - he could never, not while Virgil’s eyes shone at him and his tongue fired back at him and his fingers interlaced with Roman’s - but it was… difficult.  His entire life, he had been told he was a hero. That’s wasn’t true anymore.

He had once been a prince.  Now he didn’t know who he was supposed to be.

 

“Patton, did you really try to kill Deceit?”  The question came unbidden on one of those rare, lazy afternoons the two of them liked to spend together.

Patton was silent for a long moment, knuckles growing white where they clutched their hands together.  “Yeah, kiddo. I did.”

Some mindless sitcom played on the screen, the pre-recorded laugh track knocking the air in the room off-kilter.  Virgil couldn't see Patton's face - they were leaning against him - but he could practically feel the tension radiating off of them.

Virgil softened, wrapping his arm around Patton and squeezing.  A sudden thought hit him and he laughed.

Patton looked up at him, startled.  “I don't think most people think attempted murder is that funny, Virgil.”

“No, no” - Virgil waved them off - “it's just that I always knew you had to have a dark side. It'd be weird if Logan and I were the only ones.”

“Is this a ‘come to the dark side, we have cookies’ thingy?”  Patton's eyes sparkled.

Virgil smiled down at them.  “It most certainly is.”

“Good!”  Patton exclaimed, grabbing Virgil's hand and pulling him into the kitchen.  “I think that, after everything, we deserve a second cookie!”

_“Two_ second dark-side cookies,” Virgil corrected, rummaging around in the cabinets.

“Never thought I'd get a dark side cookie,” Patton mused.  “Attempted murder aside, I always felt like I was the _moral_ es of this family.”

“Boo,” Virgil deadpanned, trying to hide the small smile creeping across his face.  “Old joke. Get some new material, Pat.”

“I'm on the _Verge_ of finding some.”  Patton winked.

Virgil snorted, eyes shining over the sweater paw he brought up to muffle his laughter.

Patton felt their chest glow with contentment as they looked at their sweet and sour shadowling.  They produced two Oreos (even they couldn't bake _everything_ ) and handed one to Virgil.

“To the dark side,” they proclaimed with mock-gravitas, holding their cookie aloft grandly.

Virgil grinned, tapping their cookies together in a toast.  “To the dark side.”

 

Kaimi Alvi sighed in relief as she finally pushed the last piece of furniture into place in her new apartment’s living room.  She flopped down into the armchair, weary muscles humming with the pleasure of rest when a soft, timid knocking came from the door.

She opened the door to reveal Logan Abbott.  

“Logan!”  She beamed at him.  “I’m glad you could make it.”

An anxious smile played across his face.  “Salutations, Kaimi. I was pleased to receive your… cryptic, shall we say, invitation.”

“Drama just makes people want the reveal even more.”  She opened the door wider and waved him inside. “Tea?”

“If you don’t mind.”  He hovered in the entryway uncertainty.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”  She quipped, putting a kettle on to boil.  She pulled down their mugs as his gaze wandered around the room.

“This is a rather pleasant abode,” he commented.

She snorted.  “Please, don’t bore me with the small talk. You know why we’re here.”

Logan’s shoulders slumped.  “Yes,” he confessed. “I do.”  He slid off his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his shirt.  “I’m so, so sorry, Kaimi. It’s my fault that you had to undergo that… dreadful event. It’s my fault you lost your Abilities. I can’t believe-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Logan.”  She interrupted firmly. “I’m the one who pushed you out of the way.”

“And I’m the one that put you in that position!”  He cried, suddenly passionate as he slid his glasses back on.

“I put myself in that position because you’re my best friend.”  She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I was scared because I thought she was going to hurt you. I had already abandoned you once, Logan. I wasn’t about to do it again.”

Logan looked down at his mug.  If either of them were interested in Tasseography, they would see two very different fortunes for him.   _Grim,_ he would insist upon it saying. _Death and destruction follow you._

_Heart and anchor,_ she would disagree.   _You exude love and stability._

“The fault lies with me, Kaimi,” he said bitterly.  “It always lies with me. I am the reason Virgil became a villain; I am the reason you lost your Ability; I am the reason my mother died; I am-”

“Wait a minute, what?”  Kaimi scrunched her brow.   _“You’re_ the reason? Logan, I’m the one who got her on that story in the first place!”

“Yes, and I’m the one who had the opportunity to talk her out of it and didn’t take it!”  Logan countered. “I was so self-reproachful that I couldn’t bear to talk to you!”

“That’s why you didn’t talk to me for eight years? Because you felt guilty?”  Her eyes widened. “I thought you were mad at me!”

Logan huffed in exasperation.  “No, I was under the impression that you were mad at me!”

They stared at each other for a solid minute before bursting out into laughter.  It was that or start sobbing, and both of them were too emotionally constipated to start crying on a normal day in a brightly lit room with witnesses.

“We’re idiots,” Kaimi gasped out between chocked laughter.

“Complete imbeciles,” Logan wheezed in agreement.

They talked at the same time, tripping over each other’s words yet understanding the flow of the conversation perfectly, as only true best friends can.

“So you never-”

“Of course I didn’t! How could I when I was-”

“Never blamed you. In fact I was so wracked with guilt-”

“I thought you were mad at me, honestly-”

“And everything with my spine and physical therapy and-”

“I can’t believe I didn’t reach out-”

“In the same boat, as they say-”

“In the forties maybe.”

Eventually, their winding chatter came to a halt, and they both exhaled, a little lighter, a little more at ease, a little closer than before.

“Can we agree to share the blame?”  Kaimi asked, reaching out a hand to seal their solemn pact of everything-is-my-fault.

Logan smiled at his best friend.  It was the barest turning of the lips, the softest curl of the mouth, but Kaimi knew him well enough to see the grin shining in his eyes.  “There is no one else with which I would rather ruin everything.”

They shook hands.

“Good.”  She nodded, satisfied.  “Now drink your tea and tell me about your crushes on Roman and Virgil.”

And so he did.

 

“You either need to stop getting into fights, or start winning them.”  Virgil gently laid a butterfly bandage on the curve of Roman's face, right by his eye.  The actor prodded at the wound, wincing.

They were in the bathroom in what had become a familiar routine of stitching Roman up after he had found yet another altercation he couldn’t let slide.

“I did win this one!”  the ex-hero protested.

“He gave you a black eye and stole your wallet.”

“It was a… moral victory.”  Roman sulked. “Besides, the woman he was attacking got away without a scratch.”

Virgil just sighed, rummaging in the well-stocked first-aid kit for some gauze and lifting Roman's swollen hand.  He pressed a soft kiss to the bloodied knuckles before dabbing on an antiseptic cream. “Roman, you know you don’t need to keep doing this.”

Roman stared at their hands as Virgil wrapped the gauze around his knuckles, pure white already stained.  Bleeding was an unfamiliar sensation, but somewhere between the fourth and fifth time coming home with crimson matted in his hair and dirt streaked on his clothes, Roman had decided he was not a fan.  “I know.”

Calamity was frighteningly competent.  There had been an surge in crime the instant all the local malefactors got word that The Prince was out of commission, but she had (literally) shot it down almost before it began.  With The Prince out of the way, she shone brilliantly as New Psyche’s new hero, garnering quite a few loyal fans.

Roman wasn’t needed anymore.

“I just…”  He broke off into frustrated muttering.  “Quién sabe? Yo… ah, mierda. I need to do something. Something to prove that” - he hesitated, licking his lips and swallowing - “I’m still worthy of you.”

Virgil started.  “What?”

“I’m not a hero anymore!”  Roman burst out. “¡Soy inútil! I don’t save the world on a regular basis anymore, and I’m not helping people, and I’m just…”  He deflated, anger and frustration melting away under a torrent of helplessness. “I’m nothing.”

Virgil stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes for a moment before flopping forward, landing his forehead against Roman’s shoulder with a groan.  “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said to you. We’ve regressed back to the grocery store. You are a clueless moron.”

Roman spluttered indignantly, gesturing dramatically with the arm not being used as a ex-villain’s personal pillow.  “Why now, Jud-asocial emo, have you chosen to betray me so?”

Virgil dragged his head up, staring at Roman so fervently, the ex-hero found himself quelling under the force.  “Because I made the terrible mistake of falling in love with you, Roman.” He jabbed a finger into his chest, and he did not wince.  There was no unnatural strength there, no invulnerability. Roman was laid open beneath him, defenseless. _“You. Roman.”_

“Yes, thank you,” the man in question said dryly, wincing when the movement accidentally pulled at his scabs.  “I’d quite forgotten my own name.”

“You almost did.”  Virgil spread his hand out, pressing it against the warmth of Roman’s chest.  “If you ever, for one damn second, think that Roman Garcia is any less important than The Prince, you are the moron I always took you for.”  He shifted closer to Roman on the rim of the bathtub, making a movement as if to cup Roman’s face with his other hand, then stalling when he realized it wasn’t there anymore.

Roman watched this silent play, one he had seen a million times in the months since Virgil lost his arm.  “Virgil-”

“-I’m sorry, this is the _Roman Garcia_ Angst Hour. Please check your scheduled programing for the Virgil Sanders program,”  Virgil quipped, smiling when Roman couldn’t quite suppress a snort of laughter.

Virgil smiled back, lightning eyes shining before they darkened into seriousness.  “Do you know when I fell in love with you? The exact second it happened?” He didn’t wait for Roman to respond, barrelling forward.  “When I found out that you got that bill through the house.”

“What?”  Roman blinked at him incredulously.  “We’ve had so many good romantic moments, and that’s what did it for you?”

“You know how bureaucratic bullshit gets me going,” Virgil quipped wryly.   “That was it because _that_ was the moment that you did something… incredible.”

“I mean I’ve also single-handedly defeated an invading alien army but go off I guess,” Roman grumbled.

“No offence, big guy, but anyone with those Abilities probably could” - Roman threw a hand up to his chest, scandalized - “but not with your grace and charm and other complementary things,” Virgil amended, wondering why the love of his life had to have an ego with all the tactile strength of tissue paper.

“Mejor,” Roman sniffed. “Continue.”

“As you wish, your highness,” Virgil deadpanned, smiling when Roman snickered.  “You risked everything when you did that. You lost sponsors and reputation and…” He hesitated for the first time.  “Whatever she put you through.”

Roman sobered immediately, clenching his jaw and looking away.  Virgil took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

“I didn’t fall in love with The Prince. I fell in love with the man who would risk everything to help people. Who was selfless and brave and kind. I didn’t want a superhero or some fairytale knight or anything else that isn’t entirely you.”

Roman shook his head helplessly.  “What did you want, then?”

“The same thing that I want now.”  He reached up then, moving his hand from Roman’s chest to his face.  Without being asked, Roman laid his unpaired hand on Virgil’s waist. “Someone I can hold on to.”  He leaned forward and pressed their lips together, just long enough to feel Roman’s warmth. “Someone I can kiss.”

“And?”  Roman asked, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

“And,” Virgil echoed, a wavering smile playing on the edges of his mouth.  “I want that someone to be Roman Garcia, the man I’m in love with.”

Roman realized he was shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks.

It was okay though.  Virgil was crying too.  “I wanted you so badly I thought it would kill me, Roman. Every day, it felt like thorns were wrapping themselves around my chest.”

“And now?”  Roman asked, holding him a little tighter, moving a little closer.

Virgil smiled.  “Roses,” he whispered like a promise.  “Nothing but roses.” He hugged him, fitting his head perfectly into the crook of Roman’s neck.

Roman couldn’t help a smile at the memory of another hug, a begrudging embrace outside of a shelter a lifetime ago.

“You’re enough, Roman,” Virgil murmured.  “You’ll always be enough.”

This time, Roman couldn’t help but believe.

 

Waking up for the first time to see Logan in their bed, curled up against them was one of the happiest memories of Patton’s life.  Their delight was only magnified when they were greeted with the same sight the day after that and the day after that and on and on and on.

Patton’s mornings quickly fell into a happy routine: blink awake, rubbing sleep from drowsy eyes; smile at a sleeping Logan, admiring the way the early sunlight spins the edges of his dark hair into gold; snuggle closer and sort through endless thoughts, trying to figure out what sort of day this would be.

Patton murmured different sentences aloud, lowly so as to not disturb Logan.  The worry really was misplaced, though. Patton would soon come to find that Logan slumbered deeply in that pool of golden sunlight, as long as Patton was by his side.

“Patton needs to open his bakery,” the baker would murmur, tasting the pronoun before discarding or accepting it - pulling on a blue or a pink or a purple wristband.  Lists were ran through, words tested, reactions gauged. Sometimes more than one fit, and so Patton’s arms were adorned with multiple bands. Other times, no matter what, nothing seemed to fit, words falling from a mouth they puckered with sourness.  On those days, Patton almost cried with frustration, fingers frantically yet futilely flitting over the options. Sometimes Patton’s pronoun changed halfway through the day, resulting in a scramble for the right bracelet. Tension immediately seeped from the baker’s shoulders when the right one was found, another bit of identity proudly displayed.

Patton learned to become proud of who they (sometimes ‘he’, sometimes ‘she’, sometimes something else, sometimes just Patton) were.

The bracelet set expanded - an orange xe, a yellow ze, and a green ‘name only’.

Patton added their own brand of color to the world every day, and the world was more beautiful for it.

On this day, Patton ran through that happy routine, liking the way ‘he’ rolled from his tongue.  He rolled over, pleased as he snuggled closer to Logan. The astronomer stirred, a sleepy smile crossing his face.

“Good morning, Patton.”  Patton loved the way his name fell from Logan’s lips, rough with sleep but soft with affection.

“Good morning, Logan,” he responded, leaning forward to rub their noses together lightly as Logan blinked away the last sticky strands of unconsciousness.  “I love you.”

“Yes,” Logan agreed sleepily before suddenly registering what had been said.  “Oh! I mean that I love you as well.”

Patton laughed, bright and unabashed.  “Is the honeymoon phase over so soon? You must’ve been dreaming in color.”

Logan blinked.  “What?” His eyes narrowed.  “Wait a minut-”

“Because whatever you thought I said was just a _pigment_ of your imagination!”

Logan groaned, burying his face in his pillow.  “It’s too early for this.”

“Well, go back to sleep!”  Patton chirped. “I don’t want you to end up in jail again.”

“I was arrested under false pretences, and we are currently in our own home.  Why on earth would I -”

Patton grinned.  “Resisting a-rest, of course.”

“I want a divorce,” Logan grumbled.

“We’re not even married, silly.”  Patton nuzzled into the space under Logan’s chin, savoring his warmth.

“My mistake,” Logan hastened, thinking of the velvet box hiding in his dresser drawer.  “It is, as I have said, far too early for this.”

Logan reached to wrap his arms around Patton but winced, grimacing.  “Forgive me, I’m afraid I…” He hissed lowly as a nerve in his back rebelled again, pain wracking his body.  “Not a good day,” he gasped out.

Patton was immediately up and fussing over him, gently rolling Logan onto his stomach.  “Icy-hot? Back rub?”

“Yes,” he groaned, hands clenching into fists.

“Your spinal cord doesn’t look like it’s working!”  Patton swung his legs out of the bed, rummaging around in his dresser drawer for the ointment.  “You should really get your money _back.”_

Logan’s groan was certainly of pain, although whether it was of the physical or mental variety was to be determined.

Finding the ointment, Patton uncapped it and started rubbing it into Logan’s back with assured, soothing strokes honed from liberal practice.  “Has it been bad lately?”

“It’s been acting up ever since that… unpleasant battle,” Logan admitted.  Shockingly, riding in on a hoverbike, huddling under a tiny shield while a supervillain actively tries to kill you, and dropping over twenty feet from the tree you were hanging upside down in doesn’t do wonders for chronic pain.  “This, however, is the worst yet.”

Patton hummed, coating the small of his back with the ointment.  “Pretty wild, wasn’t all that?”

Logan snorted.  “A bit of an understatement.”  He sighed in relief as the edge of the pain began to subside.  “The whole ordeal was rather dramatic for my tastes.”

“Then why did you do it, Logan?”  Patton murmured, freckled fingers trailing a wandering line across dark skin.

Logan stiffened beneath his touch, although not because of it.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you -” He caught himself, sighing. No more lies.  “Surely you know, Patton.”

“I don’t.”  Patton caught a knot in the small of Logan’s back, kneading circles over it.

Logan’s forehead creased.  “Surely you must know it was all for you.”

Patton stilled.  “What?”

“I love you,” Logan said simply, as if that explained everything.  In his mind, it did. He had terrorized a city for Patton, broken the law for Patton, ripped society to shreds and brought death and devastation to thousands of people around the world for Patton.  For Patton, he would do anything at all. “I want the world to be a place in which you are safe. A place in which you are happy. I recognize now that I went about it the wrong way, but you must admit that it was efficient.”

Patton resumed his gentle menstrations, watching the man he loved melt under his hands.  “Do you regret it?”

Logan was silent for a long moment, weighing his words.  He tilted his head to catch Patton in the corner of his pensive eyes.  “I regret that so many were hurt,” he confessed eventually. “If I could go back, I would try to avoid that.”

_But I wouldn’t change._  The villain’s unspoken words hung heavy over them, polluting the beautiful golden sunlight.

Logan cleared his throat briskly.  “What has previously occurred, however, cannot be remedied. There is no use dwelling on it.”  He rolled his shoulders experimentally, tensing to push himself up, only to be gently yet firmly pressed back down by Patton.

“The past is more important than you think, Lo.”

The past had prompted Logan to go on his quest for revenge, the memory of fire blazing in his chest.  The past had forced Patton to cling to his family tighter and tighter, afraid to be alone in the silence again.  The past pressed against them and moved through them, pervasive as a prairie dust storm. Hints of memory lingered in the burns on Logan’s hands.  Recollection hung like a shroud over Patton, dulling his glow. It settled in the couch cushions, the space between doorways, the back of the closet.  The past always crops up when you least expect it.

You cannot outrun it.  All you can do is let it shape you into someone better.

“Yes,” Logan agreed.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m safe now, Logan.”  Patton’s hands skated over his back, a comfort, a thrill, and a miracle all in one.  “But I wasn’t safe then.”

“I know.”  Logan pressed his cheek into his folded arms.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.”  Patton leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek.  Logan knew it was physically and logically impossible, but his skin seemed to tingle with electricity wherever Patton kissed him.  “Say that you’ll make it better.”

“How?”

“You’re clever, Logan. I’m sure you can think of a less… violent way to help.”

Patton rubbed out the last knot in Logan’s back and curled up against his side, sighing happily when the astronomer's arms surrounded him, accompanied by the smell of ink and paper.

“Have you been working?”

Logan hummed.  “The planetarium had some taxes to file.”

They held each other in the golden sunlight, talking of everything and nothing, serious and silly, extraordinary and mundane.  ‘I love you’s were exchanged, puns were made, laughs suppressed, and kisses shared. Patton thought of the smell of Logan, the way their hands fit perfectly together, the way his smile made his eyes shine, and he knew he wanted to be with him forever.  Logan thought of the velvet box hiding in his dresser drawer, the dinner reservations for a few weeks from now he had to make, the suit he would wear, and he planned the way for he and Patton to be together forever.

They held each other in the golden sunlight, and Logan felt that angry ember in his chest soften into a warm glow.

 

“Well,” Dr. Emile Picani said once Virgil and Roman had managed to lay out the rudimentary story of how they had met.  “There's a lot to unpack here.” Which is the scientific equivalent of _yikes._

Virgil grinned sheepishly, running the back of his neck.  “A bit of an understatement there, doc.”

Out of the two of them, Virgil had actually been the one more willing to go to therapy.  At first, Roman had protested, worry worming through his stomach at the thought of someone digging around in his mind again.  He had had more than enough of that during his lifetime. Eventually, however, Virgil had persuaded him to just go to one session, and see what happened.

Roman had been won over as soon as the good doctor started singing the Pixar theme song for his dramatic entrance.

Virgil, meanwhile, eyed a Stitch plushie and vaguely wondered why he felt the urge to steal it.

“Let’s see if we can Bill de-Cipher some of this, okay?”  Picani examined his clipboard, running his fingers over his wedding ring like his mind over a fond memory.  “My vote is for Romil, but we can go for Virman if you’re feeling it.”

Virgil blinked.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh!”  Picani laughed.  “My mistake entirely. For my couples I like to establish a fusion name. It’s a good way to remind people that my client isn’t the individual, but the relationship. And I am feeling that” - he consulted his clipboard again - “Virgin- nope. No. I’m just gonna…”  He aggressively scribbled something out. “Nixing that one.”

He looked up and smiled brightly.  “I am sensing that Viran has a bit of a ways to go in the healthy communication department.”

Roman nodded sagely.  “The first time we ever had a civilized conversation was when we got trapped in a vault together.”

Picani, to his credit, didn’t look phased.  “Ah, just like when Katara and Zuko got stuck in a cave together and managed to work out some of their issues!”

“More or less,” Virgil conceded, wondering how easily that plushee would fit beneath his hoodie.

“Well, let’s Dora the Explorer some of that.”

The session went surprisingly well.  Part of it was due to Roman and Virgil’s dedication to communication, but they would be remiss not to acknowledge that Picani was an excellent therapist.  Still, something was putting Virgil on edge. He didn’t know if it was the cartoon references that consistently went over his head, or the way Picani kept looking at them - a little too sharp, a little too pointed, as if he knew something about them, and he didn’t like it.

“Well, I must say this is marvel-ous!”  Picani beamed. “The metaphorical fusion still needs some work, but I’m confident that if this level of communication keeps up, you’ll be ready for the real thing in no time!”

Virgil scrunched his brow.  “What do you mean?”

“Oh, cover your bases, Picani!”  The therapist viciously snapped at himself before turning back to them, smiling complacently.  Virgil eyed him warily. “I should have warned you that I do have the Ability to literally fuse people, like in the Cartoon Network animated series Steven Universe.”

Virgil blinked, asking “You can do what now?” right as Roman happily gasped, “You can?! We’re so an Opal.”

Picani beamed at the actor.  “I was just thinking that!”

“Baaaabbeee!” A slightly nasally voice called from the waiting room.  “You said you'd take me out to lunch.”

It was impossible to miss the way Dr. Picani’s entire face lit up with happiness upon hearing that voice.  “Oh! I do apologize, but it appears our time is up, and my husband is here.” He waved his hands in a circle and mimed bursting through a drum.  “Th-th-th-that's all, folks!”

He practically sprinted into the other room, leaving the actor and he engineer behind.  The villain subtly slipped the Stitch toy under his hoodie.

“Put it back,” the hero commanded, placing his hands on his hips.

“I was getting it for you.” Virgil sulked, doing as he asked.

“Yes, yes, you're the sweetest kleptomaniac I've ever met.”  Roman kissed him, grinning. “Now put my wallet back, too.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Virgil muttered despite the smile quirking his lips as he trailed after the actor to see Picani chatting enthusiastically with a man with a shock of navy blue hair, a pair of dark sunglasses, and a red-and-white striped cane.  A golden ring gleamed on his finger.

The Prince and The Savior froze.

“Turtleduck,” Dr. Picani was saying to him.  Fondness dripped from every syllable. “These are my two new patents: Roman and Virgil.”

The other man grinned at them.  “Hey, gurls. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.  I’m not quite sure where you are!” He tapped his cane against the ground meaningfully.  “I’m Remmington.”

“R-roman,”  The hero choked out, elbowing the villain into motion.

“Virgil,”  The villain managed.

“Well” - Picani clapped his hands, startling hero and villain - “it was very nice to see you two.”

It was an obvious dismissal, so they muttered hasty good-byes and fled.

Outside, Virgil and Roman looked at each other with wide eyes.

“Was that…?” Virgil finally choked out.

“No,” Roman managed after a pause far too long to inspire any sort of confidence.  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

It was.

Inside, Remy turned to his husband with a smirk, small granules of sand lifting themselves from thin air and caressing the other’s cheek.  “Think they suspected it, babe?”

Emile Picani dramatically stroked his imaginary beard.  “I suspect… not!”

Remy laughed, carelessly tossing aside his fake cane and taking his husband’s hand.  Smiling back, Emile twirled him, faster and faster and faster until a blinding flash of white light overtook them, and Remile stood.

He smiled through fanged teeth, adjusting his leather jacket and bowtie.  He hugged himself, laughing, as his eyes - two sand, two human - crinkled in amusement.

It was good to be a villain.

And no one hurt Emile Picani’s husband.

 

Virgil was afraid to build things, after everything that had happened.  The itch was there, his love for creation boiling under his skin, but… he couldn't.  The idea would pop into his head, and his eyes would light up and he would rush to get a piece of paper to plot a diagram out - and then he would stop.  Nausea would well up in his throat as he remembered what had happened last time.

His right hand was missing, but he could swear he felt it twitching sometimes.

Slowly, he would wad up the paper and shove it into the overflowing trash can.  Whoever was in the room with him would watch him with sad eyes, but he would shrug off their concern and go back to whatever he was doing.  His fingers would tap restlessly against his thigh.

For the most part, however, it was easy to ignore.  He found the best way to stuff his hoodie’s arm to keep people from staring.  He helped Roman run lines. He ate sweets and chatted with Patton. He and Kaimi teased Logan mercilessly.

When he was alone, however, he just stared at all of his crumpled-up thoughts.  He looked at the avalanche of paper with something deeper than hunger and stronger than fear, and he decided that he would suffocate under the weight of those unfinished ideas.

It was better not to come up with any at all.

They all tried to help him in their own ways.  Patton would _just so happen_ to be looking at the scrapbook they had made of Virgil’s best inventions.  Logan would express his disappointment that the planetarium didn’t have a better projector for the space shows.  Roman - lying through his teeth - would casually muse over how much fun he had riding on Virgil’s bike, wasn’t it a shame they couldn’t do that anymore?  Kaimi would fuss over the newspaper’s printers, complaining about how slow they were and how splotchy the ink came out.

Virgil would just give a tight-lipped smile, shrug, and make a hasty retreat.  He would lay down in his and Roman’s room, staring at his hand - only the one, only one - and hating himself for so, so many reasons.

Surprisingly, it was Katrina who had snapped him out of it.

“Can ya fix this?”  Calamity slung her prosthetic leg up, landing it on top of Virgil's desk.

Virgil pointedly looked at his laptop before closing it with a sharp, irritated click.  Why was Calamity even here? It wasn’t like they were friends. Out of the six of them, she and he probably interracted the least.  “I don’t build things anymore.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I’m not askin’ ya to build anything, sugar. I’m askin’ ya to fix it.”

Virgil blinked, confusion overriding his irritation.  “Oh.” He couldn’t think of an argument to that. “Um…”  He waited for a lump of nausea and horror to arise in his throat, but it didn’t.  “Okay then.”

Once they arrived, he pointedly ignored the way Logan’s eyes lit up when he saw Virgil leading the vigilante to the lab.

He traveled down that long hallway, riddled with rooms and dust, stopping at the last doorway to the right.  He fished the key out of his pocket and fit it into the lock. The door swung open easily, beckoning him inside.

The air smelled of electricity, grease, and metal.  His blueprints were tacked up on the walls, half-finished inventions scattered across the lab tables.  His eyes prickled, and his lips found themselves curled up into a smile.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you missed your home until you’re there again.

“Okay.” He snapped himself out of it, clearing his throat.  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

She hopped up on a table, swinging it idily.  “Suction’s all wrong, and it’s gotta nasty habit of fallin’ a few movements behind me.”

“Well,” he considered as she rolled her pants’ leg up. “Let’s see what we’re work - holy shit that thing is a piece of crap.”

She snorted.  “Ya tellin’ me.”

Virgil huffed out a breath, sizing up the painfully simplistic attachments, limited mobility of the socket, and limited traction of the tread.  “How much do you know about bioengineering?”

She smirked.  “Enough.”

He found himself smiling in return, his fingers twitching impatiently for the feeling of graphite and paper beneath his fingers, the blissfully cool metal of a wrench against his fevered skin, the ache in his eyes from working and working until it was complete.  “Let’s go then.”

It took him a minute to adjust.  It was difficult, to say the least, to jump back into such a complex project, especially after a hiatus of - oh, it must’ve been a few months at that point.  Nonetheless, after the initial rustiness flaked off, he found his hand moving as smoothly as ever - a solo dancer taking the stage by storm.

He and Katrina bounced ideas off of each other effortlessly, quibbling over fusion of nerve endings and the viability of establishing a sodium-potassium gradient.  She was an excellent partner, unafraid to tell him when he needed to sit down and shut up or quit whining and keep going. Her knowledge of biology melded with his love of engineering as they plotted out the graceful arch of a calf, the sturdy support of a foot, the flexible motion of an ankle.

It was odd, working without one of his hands.  He kept using it to reach for a screwdriver or a soldering iron or a penlight, only to look over and realize that there was nothing there.  She noticed, moving things to his left side without being asked, or handing things to him as she rushed off to critique another one of his diagrams.  It was odd, but he managed.

He came home that night.  Something came to life by his hand, and it wasn’t an evil thing, it wasn’t malevolent and horrifying.  He created, and his invention did not turn against him. Wiring, melding, soldering, tinkering - he lost himself in the movements that were as familiar as breathing.  He didn’t realize he was humming until Katrina joined in, her voice dark and smokey along his own. They sounded wonderful together.

Far too soon, they were done.  The leg was corded with shining silver, bright and clean against her dusky brown skin.  

Calamity slid off of the table, experimentally taking a few steps before grinning and breaking into a run.  She leapt nimbly between the lab tables with a wild whoop of delight, flesh and metal bunching and moving perfectly in sync.  She reached the spiral staircase and flipped herself over the rail, balancing on it before diving off and landing before Virgil.  “Not half bad.”

Virgil scoffed.  “Not half bad!? That is freaking fantastic, thank you very much.”

“I reckon you’re right.”  Katrina laughed. “It is pretty fantastic.  Ya know,” she drawled, tapping her metal foot against the ground.  “That was purdy fun. We could get started on an arm for ya?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Virgil agreed mindlessly, rubbing at his eyes.  “It’s getting kind of late, and Patton will worry if I’m not home in time for bed.”

“Healthy sleep schedule? Who’s she?”  The vigilante joked. “I live off o’ spite n’ coffee.”

Virgil snorted out a laugh, grinning.  “That is a mood and a half.”

Calamity bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, stretching her arms over her head as her back popped with a satisfying crack.  “I bett’a get on my patrols anyhow.”

“New Psyche’s taken a liking to you, huh?”

She smiled, the brusque sharpness falling away for once.  “I reckon they have.” She was not someone they would soon forget.

“Careful or Uncle Sam’s going to try to snatch you up,” Virgil teased.

She snorted.  “Aw hell no. I ain’t dealin’ with that bull malarkey.”  She sidled over to the outside exit, throwing a grin over her shoulder.  “See you tomorrow, sugar.”

“Later.”  He nodded at her as she slipped away into the night.

It wasn’t until later that night, as he and Roman curled against each other, heart rates returning to normal and the sweat cooling from their skin that he realized what had happened.

“Son of a bitch,” he suddenly said, eyes widening as he broke off their languid kiss.

“What? What’s wrong?”  Roman immediately tensed, eyes scanning the room for danger.

Virgil huffed out a laugh, burying his face in Roman’s chest, fingers mindlessly running over all of his tattoos - old and new alike.  He had never covered up the names on his chest; they would always stay there over his heart, but they were no longer the only things stamped into his skin.  They were no longer the only things he let define him. He had outlined them in flowers. The expanse of his back was spanned by the Disney castle outlined in red.  A stormcloud hung in the center of his chest, striking him with lightning. He wore his heart on one sleeve and his mind on the other, carefully painted in watercolors.

Virgil, despite himself, smiled.  “I’m either going to have to kill Katrina or buy her flowers.”

 

“I can’t believe you did that,” Kaimi laughed, lugging the over-sized teddy bear in her arms out of the arcade.

Calamity grinned lazily, revealing those sharp points and edges that turned Kaimi’s stomach into water.  “Well, if they didn’t want me ta use my Ability on the skee ball table, they should’a asked.”

“You wiped them out. There are literally no tickets left in the entire arcade.”  Kaimi shook her head despite the grin on her face. “I don’t think they’ll ever let us back in.”

Katrina shrugged, taking the reporter’s hand.  “Ya got that teddy, didn’t cha, peach?”

“I did.” Kaimi leaned up, tiptoeing to kiss her girlfriend on the cheek.  “Thank you.”

Katrina tilted her head at the last second, capturing the reporter’s lips in a peck more smiles pressing together than kiss.

“You two should be ashamed of yourselves.”  A cold, harsh voice suddenly snapped through their happy moment.

They pulled apart, bewildered gazes landing on a middle aged woman who carried herself like a reproach, all pursed lips and wide stance.  Below the boardwalk, the waters rose to lap at her feet, tossing and churning with her disapproving scowl.

“‘Suse me, ma’am?”  Calamity unconsciously took a step forward, shielding Kaimi.  “I don’t quite reckon I get ya meanin’.”

“I mean that you two should stay out of public if you’re going to act like that.”  She shook a finger at them. “You could be given children the wrong idea about things. They need to know that Unabled people don’t have any business being with the Abled.”

Kaimi made a soft sound behind her, and Calamity’s lips curled into a sneer.  “Well, bless your heart,” she drawled vitriolically. “I can’t imagine how difficult it is for ya to see two gals mindin’ their own business like you betta be fixin’ to.”

“It is my concern when you make it public.  Now I don’t care what you do behind closed doors,” the woman continued, oblivious to the tensing of Calamity’s shoulders.  “But when you bring things like that into a family environment like this -”

“We show everyone what The Truth is!”  Kaimi snapped, stepping out from behind Calamity, eyes blazing.  “That how we live our lives doesn’t affect you! That it doesn’t matter who you fall in love with! That people should be less like you!”

She was radiant with vicious fervor, trembling with barely-controlled passion.  “You know what? I hope kids do see Katrina and I together. Because then they’ll know the Truth: that it’s okay to be with whoever you want to! They’ll know that it’s good, and healthy, and that it makes us happy! And when they know that Truth, I hope they grow up to be good, accepting people.”  She stalked forward, fists clenched. “Because here’s one more Truth for you: people like you are nothing but bitter, ignorant idiots who can’t open up their eyes to see how much good there is in the world.”

_Oh,_ Katrina realized. _Oh, I am definitely in love._

Waves thrashed under the woman as she spluttered indignantly, drawing herself up to fire back when a deep voice interrupted.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”  Roman stepped forward, jaw tightened. His skirt swirled around his calves like a warrior’s tunic, and the edge of his crop top revealed the muscles hiding there.

“I’m afraid you interrupted our double date.”  Virgil was at his side, staring at the woman with darkened eyes.  His metal arm flashed gunpowder gray in the evening light, and it was suddenly so easy to see why, not too long ago, he had been the most feared man in New Psyche.  His eyes scanned her for weaknesses, already formulating attack strategies - verbal and physical alike.

Virgil never quite stopped being a villain.

The woman’s expression flickered as she looked at Roman, a small part of her even smaller brain recognizing something in his demeanor.  “Do I know you?”

He regarded her cooly.  “I’m sure I’ve never had the displeasure of making your acquaintance.”

“I don’t think there’s a way for this to play out that works for you.”  Kaimi smiled, teeth barred. “I’d save yourself the embarrassment.”

The tension dissipated as the woman stalked off, shoulders bunched.

Katrina laughed, slinging an arm around Roman’s shoulders.  “Mighty good thing ya got here when ya did. Kaimi was just about madder than a wet hen. That poor woman was ‘bout ta get her socks knocked off.”

She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket, as if for a cigarette, and immediately found three different packs of nicotine gum being shoved at her.  Everyone in the group had taken to carrying a pack around.

She chuckled, pulling out her own gum.  “I got it, y'all.”

Roman hummed, satisfied, as Virgil grinned at Kaimi, suddenly her soft, anxious friend again.  “Nice job just then.”

She shrugged sheepishly.  “She deserved it.”

“That she did!”  Roman proclaimed grandly, grabbing Virgil’s hand.  “Come along, my warrior comrades! I believe vanquishing such a foul adversary is deserving of ice cream.”

Virgil rolled his eyes fondly, a tiny smile flickering at the corner of his lips.  “We were getting ice cream either way.”

“Yes,” Roman conceded as they began to walk along the boardwalk’s wooden slats. “But now it shall taste of victory!”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just butter pecan.”

“Hold up a sec, peach.”  Calamity caught her as she made to follow the men.

“Yeah?”  The sun was setting behind them, casting a warm orange glow over the women as they stood together on the boardwalk, hands clasped between them.  Kaimi smiled up at her, soft and fierce and kind and brave and bold all at once, and Katrina felt her words die on her tongue.

She was a woman of action.  She didn’t do poetry or speaches or anything extravagant.  Her language, like herself, was coarse and simple. There never was a point in beating around the bush with these things.

“Couldn’t help but notice ya throwin’ around the word ‘love’ a whole bunch there.”

Kaimi flushed, ducking her head slightly.  “Yeah, well…” She shuffled her feet. There is a certain vulnerability that comes with telling anyone, even someone very dear to you, your true thoughts.  To allow someone into your mind, your emotions, is to open yourself up to whatever their reaction may be, wonderful or heinous alike.

“It’s the Truth,” she said, daring a glance up at Katrina and finding herself enchanted with the tiny scars that spanned the bridge of the vigilante’s nose like so many freckles.  The reporter exhaled a shaky breath and lifted her head to look Katrina in the eyes. “I love you.”

“Well, ain’t that perfect?”  Katrina opened herself in return.  “‘Cause I love you, too.”

They kissed there on the boardwalk as, behind them, the sun set to herald in another star-speckled night.

 

“I have an idea!”  Thomas proclaimed dramatically, plopping down in the chair across from Roman.

The actor grinned, quirking an eyebrow.  “Always a dangerous phrase coming from you.”

Thomas pouted.  “It's a good one this time.”

“Talk like that is how Logan found me on the roof at three in the morning, completely smashed, dressed in drag, and crying about how much I love Virgil.”

“You look great in heels” - Thomas grinned unrepentantly - “and I thought Logan would be down for ‘for science’-ing it.  If you couldn't really get drunk as a super, we had to -” He cut himself off at the look on Roman's face. “Oh, shoot, man.”  He winced, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“You’re… you’re fine.”  Roman waved him off, but the hurt didn’t quite leave his eyes.  “You had an idea?”

Thomas nodded, gratefully taking the proffered escape route.  “So you know how Governor Wyrick got impeached after that article The Truth ran?”

“Corruption, fraud, and embezzlement, oh my!”  Roman quipped, taking a sip of his tea.

“Well, now they're about to hold the election for his replacement, and…” He hesitated, fingers drumming the table.  “I’m thinking about running.”

“You should!”  Roman exclaimed, slamming down his mug and wincing when it cracked.  It was still hard for him to determine how much strength ordinary tasks required.  “Thomas, you would be fantastic!”

Relief spread over his friend's face.  “You think? I know it's kinda out-there, as far as ideas go, but it'd be a chance, you know? I could really make a difference.”

“You really could,” Roman assured him warmly.

“Great.”  Thomas grinned.  “Because that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve already got plenty of history dealing with the paparazzi and media, plus you know how to charm anyone” - Roman preened - “so I was hoping… you’d be willing to be my campaign manager.”

Now it was Roman who hesitated, uncertainty slamming into him like bullets once did.  The pain was about equal. “Oh, um.” He wavered. “Thomas, I’m not sure if that’s exactly a great idea.”

“Oh.”  The director deflated.  “Well, I mean if you don’t want to-”

“No, I do!”  Roman rushed to clarify himself.  It would be amazing, honestly. He could clearly imagine himself in a dapper suit, the press eating out of the palm of his hand as he outlined Thomas’s reform plans, but that was just it.  It was only in his imagination. “I just… I’m not sure that I can.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not really”  - He waved a hand vaguely - “that useful.”  He wasn't a hero anymore. He knew that Virgil loved him just the same, that Logan and Patton still held him dearly, that Kaimi and Calamity didn't look at him any differently, but he _felt_ different.

It was like he had forgotten the words to his favorite song.  Something that had resonated deep within, that he could start singing along to without even thinking about, had suddenly disappeared.  He could go through the exact same motions, hum the melody perfectly, tap his fingers to the tempo, and open his mouth to sing only to find… nothing.  Nothing was left.

The music hadn’t changed - the sounds, the pitches, the thrill of it humming in his bones.  It was he that had metamorphosed. Franz Kafka would be proud.

“Roman.”  Thomas sighed heavily.  “Have I ever once, in our entire friendship, cursed?”

Taken aback by the sudden shift in topic, Roman blinked uncertainty, lifting his cracked mug for a sip of tea.  “Uh… no?”

“Keep that in mind when I tell you that you feeling useless is complete and utter bullshit.”

Roman choked on his tea.

“You know there’s more than one way to save the world, right?”  Thomas chuckled. “Most of us weren’t born with Super everything. We just have to deal with what we’ve got. If you want to help, you don’t have to move mountains and toppel the system single-handedly. You just have to do whatever you can.”  He smiled at Roman. “Our way around is a bit longer, so you might want to get started.”

Well, when it was put like that, of course Roman said yes.

 

“Doll, don’t take this the wrong way, but what in tarnation am I supposed ta do with a shield?”

“I’ll try not to be offended by you slighting the incredibly complex devise I’ve spent the last two weeks creating specifically for you.”

“Naw, it’s very nice ‘n all, I’m just not sure what ya expect me to do with it.”

“Calamity, I want you to take the high-tech, titanium-plated shield with non-lethal electromagnetic blasts that can expand to twice its size and has absolutely perfect balance, and I want you to join an ultimate frisbee team.”

“A’ight, a’ight, no need ta start fixin’ ta throw a hissy fit. What, ya don’t like my guns?”

“No.”

“WHAT’D BONNIE ‘N CLYDE EVER DO TO YOU?”

“The first time we met, you tried to shoot me.”

“Ta be fair, I do that with a lotta  people.”

“You do realize that is an issue, right? Gun violence is an epidemic, you know.”

“Fine. Why a shield though?”

“Still something you can throw, less likely to send someone to the ER, and, well, it’s kinda… symbolic?”

“Whatda ya mean?”

“You don’t need those guns anymore, Katrina. You already have New Psyche safe, so you don’t really have to be a fighter.  You get to be our protector now.”

A smile.  “Well, I reckon that sounds all right with me.”

 

Roman Garcia had to relearn how to go home.

Other people went home thoughtlessly, as easily as they slid into a comfortable chair or glanced up to catch the stars in their eyes on a clear night.  Coming home is a memory learned by habit, a routine written into their heart. A turn here, a few feet here, find the keys, swing open the door - and you’re home.

Roman’s feet didn’t always carry him home.

His muscles often turned out of habit, mindlessly wandering down paths familiar to him, retaking the steps he had plodded a million times before to find himself in front of a large apartment building.  He looked up, arching his neck to see the place that had once been his home in nothing but name, and pushed down the dread that curdled in his gut.

_Don’t worry.  You’ve seen the last of me._

Coming home was easy for other people.  It took Roman Garcia much more.

To come home, you first have to find your home.

On those nights he found himself wandering, it was a struggle to remember where he had to go.  Where he belonged.

He had to forcibly turn himself away from the building with that white penthouse, looming behind him like an unwanted memory, and walk away.  His converse scuffed against the ground, and it did not shift as easily as mashed potatoes beneath him when he kicked at it. He walked and the ground stood still.

His steps were uncertain, eyes gazing around the city as if he had never seen it before.  Was it twelve steps here or ten? A block or two? Hadn’t he already passed that brownstone?  It was no use trying to remember. The buildings all looked the same on nights like those.

Some nights, they would come find him.  Logan would casually fall into step beside him, speaking slowly and calmly until the confusion faded from Roman’s eyes.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that’s what the astronomer called it. Roman just called it a living nightmare.

Patton held his hand gently and talked him through it.  They would wander around together, and Roman would feel a little less lost, a little less alone.

It was Virgil who caught him with that lost look in his eyes the most often.  Maybe it was because he was the one who worried after him the most. Virgil found him amongst the dirty city streets, unraveling at the seams, and wove him back together.  He took him by the hand and showed him the way.

But sometimes, sometimes, he remembered.  He turned away from that building, looming like an unwanted memory, and he remembered which way home was.  Twelve steps here. Two blocks that way. A turn. A few steps. The slide of the key into the lock - and he had arrived.

However he got there, the result was the same.  Sitting on the plush couch with Virgil curled against his side, arm around Patton’s shoulders, and Logan’s fingers interlaced with his.  Above them, stars shone on the ceiling.

In the end, he managed to find his way home.

 

Virgil picked at the edge of his thumb, uncertain, as he picked up the job application for the Mindscape Cafe.  He needed to get a job, and, despite all that he had been through, he was in nearly the same place as he had been almost a year ago.

Well, he didn’t have a ex-superhero for a boyfriend, satisfaction in the knowledge that he was right about Logan (who was also a villain) and Patton (who had fully embraced themself), two excellent disaster lesbian friends, more than his fair share of trauma, a reputation as a supervillain, and a prosthetic arm a year ago, but he was still broke.  Granted, Roman, what with his insane amounts of cash left over from his corporate sponsorships, tended to foot all of Virgil’s, Patton’s, and Logan’s bills, as well as still funding The Truth, but Virgil wanted that indepence. So, he found himself picking up a job application in a coffee shop.

Someone stiffled a gasp, and he looked up to see a teen with a mess of green hair staring at him with wide eyes.

Virgil blinked.  “Can I help you?”

“You’re him, aren’t you?”  They spoke in a hushed, excited whisper.  “The… The Savior?”

A jolt of adrenaline hit Virgil’s bloodstream, but he managed a snort.  “What? No. He’s in jail. Besides, his hair is brown, and mine” - he waved a hand to highlight his head - “is purple.”

“Oh.”  The teen flushed.  “My bad. Sorry to bug you.”  They hastily scampered away, and Virgil fought to keep a stoic face.

He was constantly surprised how well the purple hair actually worked.

He mindlessly scanned the blanks of the job application, wondering how he could work around the year’s gap in his work history that The Savior had preoccupied, when he looked up and saw a familiar face.  A thought hit him, and he shoved the application in his pocket, sauntering over.

“Hey there, handsome.”  Virgil smirked.

“Sorry,” Roman barely glanced up from his phone.  “I have a boyf-” He suddenly registered who was standing before him.  “Virgil!”

“You have a boyf-Virgil?”  The engineer quirked an eyebrow.  “Would a regular Virgil be good enough?”  He stuck out a hand. “A Virgil Sanders, to be specific.”

The actor snorted.  “I know who you are, Chris Carrab-bad.  I just picked your dirty laundry off of the floor this morning.”

“Well, that can’t be!  We’ve just now met when I” - Virgil waved the crumpled paper for evidence - “have only now come to apply for a job at this coffee shop.”

Roman’s eyes suddenly widened, and a soft ‘oh’ escaped his mouth.

“Excuse me?”  the person behind them interrupted.  They were a graying, middle-aged person, neither attractive nor hideous, neither short nor tall, and neither male nor female.   They were just an ordinary citizen - which is not to be confused with an average one - and rather consequential in the long run, just not to our story.  “Are you in line?” Our Citizen asked.

“What about it, Princey?”  Virgil gestured to the line.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

Roman laughed.  “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

“I think,” Virgil said as they joined the queue. “That I’m done with what’s ‘supposed’ to happen.”

Virgil rattled off the most extravagantly complex order he could think of once they reached the counter, smiling apologetically at the harried barista - Sage, his nametag read.  Roman, however, lit up with every ‘low-fat, extra, double pump’ whatever, so Virgil couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

“Still don’t get how you can drink that.”  Roman wrinkled his nose at the engineer’s plain black coffee.

“It’s as dark as my soul and half as caffeinated,” Virgil quipped, leading the actor to a cozy booth, overlooking the street.

“Oh, so you actually ordered _milk,_ got it.”  Roman slid in next him as the villain spluttered indignantly.

“I may not be an active villain anymore, but I assure you I am no less evil.”  Virgil stuck his nose up, but the effect was tempered by the smile quirking the corners of his lips.

“I have no doubt as to that,”  Roman assured him, lacing their fingers together on top of the dark oaken table.  “Only those who have achieved the highest levels of villainy could ever hope to work at a coffee shop.”

“There’s a reason Starbucks always gets your name wrong.”

“I knew no one could ever seriously think I’m named ‘Romano’.”

“Yeah, that’s way too cheesy.”  Virgil smirked.

Roman snorted.  “That was such a week pun, Something definitively not Corporate.”

Virgil just grinned unrepentantly.  “Eh, you love me anyway.”

“Yes,” Roman agreed easily.  “I do love you.” It was easier from him now.  The words didn’t scratch at his throat, withering and dying on the tip of his tongue.  Sometimes, yes, but most of the time, no.

Slowly but surely, he was getting better.

“Good.”  Virgil pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, where a crescent-shaped scar lied like a ridge of silver mountains against his brown skin.  “Because I love you too.”

“Oh my gosh.”  Roman’s hand flew to his mouth.  “I can’t believe I’m getting hit on by the hot barista.”

Virgil snorted.  “I haven’t even applied yet, Princey.”

“I honestly don’t get why you are. I know you turned down NASA because they're bigoted idiots, but can’t you just sell those mechanimal things? I keep hearing people at Bake My Day asking where Pat got Pathos.”  Roman took a sip of his devilish, frou-frou concoction, oblivious to the way Virgil was gaping at him. “Or maybe something like Draco here.” He tapped the miniature dragon curled around the shell of his ear, whispering the important sounds that were sometimes too hard for him to sort out among all of the other white noise.

“Seriously?”  The engineer gasped out eventually.  “You think I could?”

“You’re building again, aren’t you?”  Roman pointed out. “That accursed hoverbike is once again running.”

“Be nice to Brendon Urie.”  Virgil scowled, grasping at the out.  “He never did anything to you.”

“Besides almost kill me.”  Roman arched an eyebrow, letting him.  “Do stop lights mean anything to you?”

“Sure. Green is go, and yellow is for decoration.”  Virgil casually sipped his coffee, eyes sparkling with a dare.

“I’m genuinely afraid to ask what red means.”

“Vague suggestion.”

“Ah, there it is.”

Virgil smirked, but it faded as his mind took him far away, as it was prone to doing.  He started tapping his shining, metal fingers against the table rapidly. Roman patiently waited for him to return from the endless galaxies inside his head, drops of mercury shining in those eyes.

“Do you really think people will buy them?”

Ah.

“Yes,” Roman promised.  “They’re incredible.”

“Okay.”  Virgil nodded, huffling a strand of hair out of his face.  “I’ll… I’ll start taking orders than.”

“Good.”  Roman smiled.  

“So what happens next here?”  He asked, trailing lazy circles in Virgil’s palm.  “You cry over Twenty One Pilots, I reveal my secret identity as a philatelist, and I finally get a second date after flirting for almost a year?”

Virgil shrugged, resting his head on Roman’s shoulder.  “Maybe. Or maybe we can decide on something else.” He tilted his face up and kissed the edge of Roman’s jaw.  “It’s our choice.”

“Our choice,” Roman repeated, savoring the feeling of the words on his tongue.  They thrilled him - endless possibility brimmed from those two syllables.

The word was stretched before him - not at his feet, not bearing down on him, not crushing him in on himself.  He was a part of it now, as it was a part of him. “I think I like that.”

Roman and Virgil sat in the coffee shop, holding hands, sipping their drinks, and watching the world outside.

 

“A turnout like this,”  Logan remarks to Virgil.  “Is a statistical anomaly.”  He goes on to explain that as 99.96 percent of the world’s population has some sort of enhanced ability, and the majority of them do - or, did, until very recently - hold some sort of bias against the Unabled, it does not make any logical sense for a crowd of bordering on two-hundred-thousand to have showed up for their protest march.

Virgil stares with wide eyes at the sheer number of people around him.  Two hundred thousand is less than three millionths of the world’s population.  Statistically insignificant. Virgil, however, is beginning to realize that the cool, neutral laws of mathematics cannot account for so many things.

They cannot account for the way Roman’s hand feels in his own.

They cannot account for the smile that dimples Patton’s face as they look around with sparkling eyes.

They cannot account for the fire in Logan’s countenance, the joy and satisfaction as he realizes that he helped do this.

Virgil smiles at all of them.  “Ready?”

Patton laughs, bounding forward.  “It’s about time!”

“Quite,” Logan affirms, marching along behind his betrothed.

“Come on, this could’ve been a Simple Plan.”  Roman gestures to the crowd behind them. “We’re waiting on you.”

There are people soaring in the sky above him, the people with flames for hair and rocks for skin, people who move with poise, with grace, with purpose - ready to change the world.  Virgil lifts his head from his hoodie as he moves within it. Iridescent wings, insurmountable strength, psychic ability, supernatural charisma - all these and more belong to - statistically speaking - every single other person on this planet.

But there are others.  People who have none of this.  A girl with a mess of black hair and a mischievous grin holds up a sign reading **Respect my Existence or Expect Resistance.** An elderly man passes out bottles of water and sternly tells the younger protesters not to wear themselves out now.  A boy who had always - quite literally - blended into the background, now stands solid and true; his cast is off, and he holds his boyfriend’s hand.  A person who was kicked out of their home bursts into tears of joy because they know that finally, _finally_ they can fight back, that they’re not alone.  By the end of the march, they will meet the man they’ll spend the rest of their live with.

They cannot fly, they cannot bend reality and space, they cannot ride with the clouds between their knees or bend the will of the heavens, but they cannot be dismissed.

This is a world of powers, but it’s their world too.

Virgil once thought that all the limelight got you was a nasty burn, but that isn’t necessarily true.  There is the undeniable feeling of eyes on him, alight with passion and excitement. They are watching him, but he is ready to show them the right way.

His scuffed combat boots hit the pavement in a familiar _one-two, one-two_ pattern.  Behind him, the crowd begins a chant, more roar than words.   _We are here!_  They cry.   _We are here, and we will not be denied._

His _one-two one-two_ pattern is abruptly knocked off-kilter as he collides with a man with glowing red eyes.  “Ah, sorry, man,” The man apologizes, adjusting his own sign. **If I stopped being an asshole, you can too!**

Luckily, there are no counter-protesters.  One of the first acts of the newly-elected Governor Thomas was to disband the Powered Citizens United Corp.

There are even police stationed nearby, making sure no one harasses them.  Patton waves cheerfully at the new chief of police, DeVante Johnson, and the officer’s eyes widen with fear.

Patton sighs fondly.  “He's a good kiddo.”

“Where are Kaimi and Katrina?”  Roman asks, scanning for his friends.

“I believe Katrina is at her new occupation with Doctor Ayodele, and Kaimi is galavanting around getting interviews.”  Logan gestures towards a mint-mint green blur, darting around and scribbling down notes.

Patton beams.  “The Truth is really getting popular, isn’t it?”

Logan sighs, but the effect is tempered by the smile quirking his lips.  “Publishing is now national, but don’t mention it to her. Kaimi’s ego is big enough without us feeding it.”

Roman snorts.  “You’re one to talk, Heart of Snark-ness.”

They round a corner, and Virgil stops dead in his tracks.  There’s graffiti on the side of Bake My Day.

“Navya!”  Roman exclaims, delighted, as they approach.

A chubby indian girl with bright blue hearing aids clipped to both of her ears turns towards them.  “Hey, Roman,” she says with a wink. “Don’t mind me. I just got in the spirit.”

She slips off into the crowd, leaving them to admire the mural.

Stars swirl around the edges - red and purple and two shades of blue.  The trees of a forest wave in an imaginary breeze as a baker rides in on a white horse. A hero stands proudly, protecting those behind him. A villain is at the ready, appearing first in one corner, than another - forever vigilant.  An astronomer waves his arms enthusiastically, and the stars spell out the truth he tells.

In the background lurks a word, as red as an accusation - _powerless._ It’s been slashed through the middle, refuted and covered by those before it.

Patton laughs, wiping the happy tears in their eyes away.  “It’s perfect.”

“Oh my gosh?”  Roman turns around to see two people - a woman with snakes on top of her head and a friend of hers - standing behind him with sparkling eyes.  “Are you really?”

They break off into giggling as weariness settles over Roman.  “Why, yes I am!” The Prince proclaims grandly. “It is I, The P-”

“Roman Garcia!”  The gorgon exclaims.

Roman blinks at them, taken aback.  “What?”

“We totally saw you in that production of Richard the Third?” Her friend explains.  They have a soft lilt at the end of their phrases that makes everything they say sound like a question.  “You were so awesome?”

A smile and a bright red blush creep across Roman’s face.  “Oh!” He is incredibly flustered, hands gesticulating wildly as he stammers out a thank you.

He is grinning broadly in the selfie they ask to take with him, and his smile is real.  “They liked me!” He cries, turning to the others with sparkling eyes. “They really liked me!”

“Well, why wouldn’t they?”  Logan, of all people, fires back.  “You were marvelous.”

They can probably fry eggs on Roman’s face at this point.  “Careful there, Don Juan way to flirt, or Patton might find themself with some competition.”

Patton doesn't much like the sound of competition, but they wouldn’t mind company at all.

The start marching again, _one-two one-two,_ leading the way.

Virgil glances over at Roman, who chats enthusiastically with those around him, trying to come up with a catchier chant.

“How you doing, Princey?”  Virgil ducks into give him a quick kiss.  “I hope this isn’t too mundane for your highness.”

Roman shrugs, grinning as he hoists his sign a little higher, holds his head a little taller.  “There’s more than one way to save the world.”

“We haven’t really fixed everything, though, have we?”  Logan points out. “We’re still Powerless in a prejudiced world.”

Virgil shakes his head, a grin playing on the edges of his lips.  “You’re wrong there, pocket protector.”

They haven’t cured the ails of the world.  They haven’t eradicated prejudice and injustice, but they’ve started.  They stand together at the front of a protest that is thousands strong, marching down the street with a roar on their lips and fire in their eyes.

It isn’t a happy ending, but it’s a hopeful one.  Perhaps that is even better.

“Yeah, we’re Unabled,” Virgil says, lacing their fingers together.  He holds onto Roman and Logan, who in turn holds Patton, alight and alive.  They march together, stepping out of the shadows and into a treacherous future.  

“But we’re never Powerless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to feel like there was something special about everyone but me. I felt like there was something magical, something supernatural, something amazing that everyone but I shared. It was as if everyone had some sort of super Ability, and I was left. Powerless.
> 
> So, I dreamt up a story.
> 
> A story about love and loss and friendships and powers and the world we live in, just a little different. I dreamt up a story about me. It's a story about every time I flinched when a slur hit my skin or someone asked me if I was born in this country or every time my heart skipped a beat when a police officer watched me just a bit too closely. It's a story about every time someone told me who to love or how to live. 
> 
> I dreamt up a story about my sister, and the pain that will never quite leave her. It's the story of an invisible disability that makes you look around and marvel at the rest of the world.
> 
> I dreamt up a story about you.
> 
> Because this story was written for you as much as for me.
> 
> If you’ve ever been pushed to the side, if you’ve ever been shunned for who you are, if you’ve ever been told that you can’t be who you are or that you don’t know who you are, if you don’t quite know who you are yet, this is a story about you. We are the Unabled.
> 
> We’re the ones who are going to save the world.
> 
> If you take anything away from Powerless, let it be this: you need to fight. Stand up for what you believe in, whatever it may be. Protest. Pray. Petition. Picket or march or boycott or vote or do whatever you can do to make your voice heard. You need to walk down the street with your brothers and your sisters and all those who share the fire I hope you now have. Roar a thousand chants and cry out against every single injustice that you see.
> 
> This is a story about all of us.
> 
> We're never, not for a single second, powerless.
> 
> Thank you for hearing me. Thank you for listening to my story.
> 
> and if you see a typo... well, you should know what to do by now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wounded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272350) by [NoctisVale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoctisVale/pseuds/NoctisVale)




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